Roll to Your Rifle
by freshouttaideas
Summary: Tim and Rachel tackle the FBI, the DEA, and the drug cartels. Well they have to do something when they're not helping Raylan. Rated for violence and occasional swearing.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: ** I do not own Justified or any of E.L.'s characters. This is a long involved story. Read at your own risk. If anyone, at any point, feels that this should have an 'M' rating, just let me know and I will change it pronto - no questions asked, no explanation needed.

We all know that Raylan is busy in Harlan, we watch it all during the regular season. This is how Tim and Rachel keep busy when they're not passing him files or providing cultural lubrication for his investigations. Long live the minor characters.**  
**

Charlie is named in honor of 50ftQueenie. Stereotypes unite, and take over the fan fiction world.

Incorrect facts are my fault, feel free to comment. I live to learn.

If I've used your name for an original character it was COMPLETELY accidental, and it means it's cool - be proud.

This is fiction - suspension of disbelief is required.

My eternal respect to any war veterans.

Thank you to RedMolly for fact checking and lol's. More guns.

* * *

**Roll to your Rifle – Chapter One**

Once Charlie Bremner had accepted the fact that his wife, Sheila, was going deaf, he started to enjoy it. He would slip quietly out of bed before 6am and have the house to himself for a brief time. He would brew himself a nice strong pot of coffee, add a little something without Sheila knowing, and sit out on the porch enjoying the Kentucky morning. He and Sheila had moved into the house right after they were married and had lived there ever since. He loved it, loved the porch, loved the early Kentucky autumn. They would have to carry him off his property feet first. Nothing changed, nothing happened. It was peaceful, just what he wished for at his age.

He finished his first cup of coffee, pulled himself out of the porch chair and headed into the kitchen for a second, with a little something extra. He let the screen door go too soon and it thudded onto the frame. He paused, listening for movement from the bedroom but all was quiet. The squeaky springs on the bed, the click of the bedroom door latch, the coffee brewing, the clinking of his mug on the counter, nothing disturbed her anymore unless he shook her awake or the dogs started barking.

He was reaching for the bourbon when the dogs started barking. He lumbered over to the back door as fast as he could, unlatched it and stepped out onto the stoop.

"Roger, Frieda," he half-whispered, half-shouted, "stop it!"

The two dogs were on the edge of the yard fighting over something that was too interesting for them to pay heed to their master. He stomped down the steps and marched over, repeating his commands and interjecting a few good curses.

"Goddamned dogs!" he growled. When he got close enough he grabbed Frieda by the collar and reached over for Roger. He yanked them apart. The object they'd been bickering over fell out of Roger's mouth at his feet. It was an arm, or at least part of one, the part with the hand on it.

"Jesus Christ!" he cursed again and staggered backwards. He turned and ran as fast as he could back to the house yelling for Sheila.

* * *

Tim's cell phone buzzed twice on the kitchen table then stopped. He reached over and flipped the phone right side up, peered at the display and smiled. He'd met a marine at sniper school, also from Kentucky and, like him, with no family. The two of them had trained together, bonded over bourbon, crossed paths once or twice on a dusty base in "the suck" as the marines liked to say, raised hell on leave and called it quits about the same time in the same year. Tim had filed the necessary papers, been debriefed, received his DD214 and an honorable discharge and headed back home.

His buddy however had left with style. He was hit with mortar fire near the Durand Line, somewhere in that grey area that was Afghanistan one day and Pakistan the next depending on the need. He was medivaced and later buried at Arlington cemetery. But through it all he'd kept in touch, texting Tim a couple of times a year. He'd even driven to Lexington once after Tim had been assigned to Kentucky with the Marshals Service and they'd ordered pizza and gotten drunk. He made Tim promise to put some flowers on his grave if he ever got up to the capitol.

The CIA loved a sniper with no personal ties, one they could 'kill off' and re-brand and slip across international borders. They'd gone after them both, the poor orphans, but Tim wanted nothing to do with it. He'd had enough. The way he saw it, his buddy was playing his own version of Harlan roulette, but with luck asking the questions.

His buddy's name was also Tim. Tim Weaver, the marine, had introduced himself on their first day at sniper school. Tim, the Ranger, had replied that he was Tim, too. It had stuck. Everyone had called him Timtoo from then on, even the instructors.

_Hey Tim2_, the text read, _stopover at SDF, sat nxt 1400. Drink?_

_Roger that, _Tim replied, his smile now stretching all the way across his face. His buddy always had good stories. He'd reciprocate and tell him about Raylan 'disarming' Quarles and the whole piggy bank incident and his buddy would think it hilarious and say how much he missed Kentucky. Tim was looking forward to next weekend.

Getting up from the table he stretched and shuffled to the counter to get more coffee. It was Saturday morning and he was usually a little slower getting going that day than any other day of the week. He'd managed to curb his weekday drinking, mostly, so he tended to indulge a bit too much on Friday nights. But that was okay. It was getting better. He was back in shape again, working out and running every day. The nightmares were dogging him less, maybe because of the distance of a few more years, maybe because he was keeping himself busy and getting a routine back. Adjusting to life outside the military was never going to be easy, he knew that. He just kept telling himself it was getting better. It had become his mantra.

His cell phone buzzed again, but this time it kept on going, vibrating its way to the edge of the table. Tim lunged to catch it before it hit the floor. He glanced at the clock – 7am. It had to be Art or his SOG team leader. He hoped it wasn't the latter. He didn't feel like running off to Louisiana this morning, or any morning.

He mentally crossed his fingers and checked the display. It was Art.

"Yep," he greeted him.

"Got a pencil and paper, or a pen and some skin? I've got an address. And I told Rachel you'd pick her up on the way."

Tim grabbed a pen and wrote the address on the back of his hand and hung up without saying anything else. Art didn't sound in the mood for pleasantries.

* * *

The address was on a back road in Clay County, an hour and a half drive out of Lexington. A few wrong turns later Tim and Rachel pulled up on the side of the road at the back of a string of vehicles and sat together in silence looking at the mayhem.

Tim was the first to speak. "What the fuck?"

Rachel had nothing to say, she just turned her wide eyes to him then back to the scene. They climbed out of Tim's truck and worked their way past the row of vehicles to the lane attached to the address. FBI, DEA, County Sheriff personnel, a US Marshal jacket belonging to Art, a coroner and paramedics, all mingled on the gravel in front of the house. Art caught their attention and waved them over.

"What a circus," he said by way of a greeting. "There's so much jurisdicking going on I don't think anyone's even bothered to check the crime scene yet. I wish they'd just waited and called us later. I was enjoying my coffee."

Art huffed in disgust, collected himself and turned his attention to Tim and Rachel.

"Okay, here's what I've gathered so far from one of the locals," he started. "Yesterday, some poor old codger a couple of miles east of here got his morning coffee rudely interrupted - pulled a human arm out of his dog's mouth. He called the Sheriff, and he and his boys spent most of the day chasing down the dog when it ran away with the evidence. I guess they finally caught up with it and then figured they'd call in their own dogs to try and track down the other bits. Sometime in the wee hours they found this." He waves at the house. "Apparently we have the remains of four people over there, minus an arm."

"Any idea what happened?" Rachel asked. She and Tim could make out two bodies on the porch of the house.

"Not sure yet. Lots of destruction though and not just to the bodies. Odd thing is, apparently some of the closest neighbours have already been canvassed and nobody heard anything. They found wallets and ran names and all kinds of shit starting popping. Apparently the Feds were working up a case on one of the deceased, so they got a call. The DEA have been watching one of the others, so they got a call. And, wouldn't it just figure, but another one is up on a federal warrant for interstate trafficking, one Franklin Westman, so I got a call. So here we all are." He threw his hands in the air and caught them again on his hips. He looked like he wanted badly to chew someone out. "Now all we need is a bowl of punch, some beer and a band."

"It's a BYOB," said Tim. "Bring your own body." He tossed a grin at Rachel.

"Not funny," she replied flatly. Art's frustration was contagious. It was going to be a long day.

While Art was explaining the findings to his team, the Feds and the DEA seemed to have come to some sort of arrangement. The FBI's lead agent was taking charge and passing out orders to the others. The three Marshals watched the party. Eventually the agent in charge walked over and introduced himself. Art thought he looked young, but they all did these days. He was conservatively dressed, and had just enough confidence and swagger to make him the obvious choice to take charge, but just enough ease and charm to make him likeable despite it.

"Special Agent Paul Darling," he said, shaking Art's hand.

"Chief Deputy Art Mullen," Art replied congenially. "This is Deputy Brooks and Deputy Gutterson."

The agent smiled and acknowledged them perfunctorily. "Sorry for the confusion. I understand one of the deceased is a federal fugitive. We'll let you on the scene after the DEA and my agents have had a look."

"That's fine. We're not likely to lose him."

"I appreciate your cooperation," recited Special Agent Darling without really listening to Art's reply. He opened his mouth to say something else then closed it and gave Art a funny look before heading back to the house.

Art sighed heavily and crossed his arms. "Anyone pass a gas station on the way in? I could use a coffee."

* * *

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx


	2. Chapter 2

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Two**

It was after lunch before the Marshals were allowed anywhere near the house. Art had finally sent Tim for drinks and food. Rachel volunteered to go with him. Her feet were killing her and she was happy for the chance to sit for while. When they got back, Art's mood had not improved. They plied him with snacks and comic remarks about the other agencies but eventually ran out of quips and settled into silence, sipping their coffees.

The paramedics eventually left since it was clear their services weren't needed, and a forensics team pulled in. Finally Agent Darling walked over to discuss the situation with Art.

"I've no idea what hit this place," he commented shrugging. "A guy from the DEA thinks maybe someone went at the house with a machine gun. One of the locals suggested grenades. Hopefully forensics will find something so we can figure out the weapons used and with any luck that'll narrow down our hunt."

"It looks to me like the beginnings of a turf war," Art said. "Can I ask what the interest is here for the FBI and the DEA?"

"Apparently we have overlapping cases going," Darling replied. He made a wry face. "You'd think we'd have been cooperating on it, but that would be so…"

"Unusual," suggested Art.

"Efficient," offered Rachel.

Tim smiled into his cup.

"Yeah," conceded Darling with a grimace. "So, to answer your question… We've been building up a case on a known drug runner from Texas who seems to be back and forth through Kentucky a lot lately. The DEA are tracking a link between a cartel from Mexico and a different fellow in Texas who is helping the Mexicans get their drugs into the States. Our two guys it appears have some common associates, including your federal fugitive. And now they're all dead in a shack in Kentucky with a local hillbilly." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the house.

"Do you have any idea who did this, or why?" Rachel asked him.

"Just theories. Maybe, as you say, it's the start of a turf war. If the Mexicans are running product through the state, it means good money," Darling replied.

"But you think it's something else," Rachel stated watching his reaction.

He gave her his full attention for the first time. "There is some evidence that the drug runners on this route were skimming product," he answered carefully. "But I can't tell you much more than that. It's not my information to share and the DEA are pretty tight-lipped."

"I understand," Art nodded. "Any chance we could see your report on this when you're done?"

"Maybe I can arrange that," he answered. "Thanks for being so patient."

Darling nodded to them and headed back to his team. He seemed very reasonable for a Fed. It made Art suspicious and he scowled at him as he walked away.

"Well, I guess it's our turn to have a look around," said Art with a shrug. "I know it seems redundant since this lot has been crawling over every inch of the place for the last few hours, but we work the ground in these counties more than they do. Maybe you'll see something they missed."

Neither Tim nor Rachel believed that for a minute, but it was an attempt at a pep talk and they appreciated it. Art wandered over to introduce himself to the lead DEA agent. Tim and Rachel exchanged tired looks and headed over to do their job.

The Marshals' fugitive was one of the unfortunate men found in the house. Since he was their only real concern Rachel walked directly inside to take notes. Tim followed behind, but stopped outside the door and looked over the scene on the porch. Two men were sitting in chairs, both killed by shots to the upper chest, one of them the owner of the wayward arm. Blood spray covered the damaged wall behind them, suggesting nasty exit wounds. One of the posts holding the porch roof was splintered in two, the top piece hanging from a cross beam, the base pushed over toward the house. The house itself was a wreck of timber and broken glass, like a crazed renovator had run amok with a SawzAll, working his way from one end to the other.

Tim stepped gingerly through the door, trying not to disturb anything or track through the blood splatter. The condition of the bodies splayed out in the front room brought to mind wounds from mortar fire. Even the furniture didn't escape whatever force had attacked the house. The table was overturned and split in two and the sofa was shredded. Wood splinters and broken glass littered the floor.

The flies were everywhere and the smell was overwhelming. Whatever happened here had happened a few days earlier.

Tim walked back out onto the porch for air and stood staring at the bodies. This was familiar destruction. It stirred something in his memory. His mind filled with the sound of automatic weapon fire and the smell of gunpowder. He blinked and shook his head. He felt a bit anxious, threatened. He could feel the adrenalin kicking in. He passed a hand across his forehead and realized he was sweating.

"Hey," someone barked at him. He looked around. One of the DEA agents was striding over across the lawn. "If you're going to throw up, get off the porch."

Tim stared at him blankly then looked out across the road at the slow rising hill beyond. His hands were shaking. He hid them in his jacket pockets.

"I said get the fuck off the porch! Geez, you must be new. Mullen, get your kid off the porch before he contaminates the crime scene! He's looks like he's going to puke."

Art was now talking to one of the Feds and looked up along with everyone else in the front yard to see what the problem was. When he saw Tim, he excused himself and sauntered over.

"Oh, don't worry about him," he said calmly, smiling at the agent. "He's not the puking kind – more the kick-your-teeth-in kind or the Saturday-morning-hung-over kind."

"Look at him. He's white!"

Art gave the agent a stern look. "The Marshals Service is committed to being an equal opportunity employer. We're careful about not discriminating," he replied seriously.

Tim had moved off the porch during the exchange and gave Art a grateful smile. The agent, satisfied that the scene was no longer in danger of being compromised, threw them both a disgusted look and stomped off. Art stepped closer to Tim and studied his face.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," Tim replied.

They stared at each other. Tim broke off eye contact first and ducked his head.

"You said none of the neighbors heard anything," he questioned, changing the subject. He kicked at the gravel at his feet and avoided looking at Art.

"Yeah, weirdest thing," confirmed Art. He kept his voice light, but continued studying Tim's face. "The house is isolated but you'd think with all this going on somebody would've heard something."

"Maybe, maybe not," Tim responded, looking up. "I think they used a .50 cal with a suppressor. No one would have heard much, just splintering wood and something like a small caliber hunting rifle being fired. Pretty common sounds around here this time of year."

He started walking up the lane way and Art followed, curious to see where Tim was going with this. When they got to the road Tim stopped, turned back and studied the house. He could picture where each shot was placed.

Art followed Tim's gaze and wondered again what could be capable of that kind of destruction. "You're saying a rifle could do that?" He didn't sound convinced.

"Sure," Tim replied. "M107 with heavy rounds, like 750 grain, hollow point."

"A rifle? Are you sure?" Art asked, still not convinced.

"Uh-huh. I've done it," Tim replied succinctly. "Looked just like that." He nodded toward the house, the bodies.

Art chewed on that statement and tried to imagine the circumstances.

Tim turned away from the house and looked at the terrain behind them. "I'm going to take a walk," he said to Art and headed across the road and up the low hill.

He didn't stop until he was about fifty yards from the house. He studied the hill carefully, looking for locations where he would set up if he were the shooter. He criss-crossed the slow rise moving farther and farther away before finding what he was looking for. He knelt down and studied a small hollow, just a dip in the ground. The fallen leaves had been tamped down and someone had dragged a log over to the side facing the house, a perfect rest for the muzzle of a heavy rifle. He shuffled through the leaves where the casings would have ejected, but didn't find anything. He wanted to lie down in the hide, check it out for himself, but he knew he'd get shit from the Feds so he satisfied himself with squatting behind to judge the angle. He had another good look around and headed back.

Rachel met him on road.

"You worry me a little when you just wander off into the woods like that," she mock-scolded. "What if you got lost?"

"You'd come look for me, wouldn't you?"

"Not in these shoes," she replied indignantly. "What were you doing?"

"Looking for a sniper's nest."

Art walked up to join them with Special Agent Darling in tow.

"Did you find anything?" Art asked.

Tim nodded and pointed. "There's a saddle about 75 yards up the hill."

"What are you thinking?" asked Darling.

Tim explained his theory and described the hide. Darling looked doubtful but asked Tim to take a member of the forensics team up to the spot to take pictures and gather any evidence.

* * *

Torrent peered into his scope, watching the teams of law enforcement moving around by the house. He and his brother were happy with the job they'd done on this thieving hillbilly drug gang. The hit had been fun. Torrent had never used that rifle on anything wooden before though he had read that you could pass a jacketed round through five wooden structures in a row from a Barrett M107. But he had chosen a cartridge that would do more damage. His employer wanted a message sent. He had asked for serious visual impact and Torrent gleefully provided.

He watched the scurrying agents and smiled smugly. It had taken a few days for the police to arrive at the scene and in that time they had been able to identify two others in the hillbilly gang when they drove up to check in at the house. The two had peeled out too quickly for Torrent to take a shot, but long enough for him to read a license plate.

The scene was such a mess Torrent figured it would take forensics at least a week to determine what had happened. By that time, he and his brother could take out the remaining two and be long gone.

He was not pleased to see his plan hitch a bit. He watched in disbelief as a man marched across the road from the house and climbed up the hill in the direction of his hide. Enough of the leaves had fallen from the trees that he caught glimpses of him as he moved over the hill. He was definitely looking for something. When he returned up the hill later with one of the forensics team, Torrent cursed.

He thought back to the hit. They were careful. They were professional. They had collected the shells and hadn't left anything else behind. He was reasonably confident that the rounds would be beyond identification if they were even found. He should probably have taken the time to disguise the hide but it was too late for second-guessing. It probably wouldn't make much difference except now they would be on the lookout for a sniper. He focused his scope for a closer look at the man and read the letters on the back of his jacket, U.S. MARSHAL.

"_Hijo de puta_," he spat.

There was nothing left to learn here. It was time to clear out of their hiding spot.

* * *

Author's note: _Hijo de puta_ = 'son of a (not-a-nice-word-to-call-someone's-mother)'


	3. Chapter 3

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Three**

Agent Darling followed Tim's progress up the hill until he was out of sight. He turned to Art with a bemused expression.

"I'm sorry, what's his name?"Agent Darling asked Art.

"Tim Gutterson."

"He seems pretty confident about this rifle idea."

Art shrugged. "He was a sniper with the Army Rangers. I get the impression he was pretty good. Doesn't talk about it much, though."

"He knows his stuff," Rachel added curtly, not liking Darling's tone.

"If he was a Ranger, I don't doubt it," he said, delivering a disarming smile to smooth relations.

She stared stonily back and his smile spread.

The DEA agent who had been yelling at Tim earlier approached and interrupted their conversation, giving Darling a curt nod. "We're done here. My team's heading back to Louisville. Let's meet up in our office."

"Perfect," replied Darling. The DEA agent turned and walked away without acknowledging the Marshals.

Darling looked a bit embarrassed and shrugged at Art and Rachel. "DEA – Dicks, Egoists and Assholes."

Art chuckled and decided he could like Special Agent Darling if only he wasn't FBI.

"I can see the advantage to having the Marshals Service involved," Darling continued. "Can you spare some people to join us tonight?"

"Son," Art replied, shaking his head at him, "with diplomacy skills like that, what are you doing in the Louisville office? Did you piss someone off in Washington?"

Agent Darling kept eye contact with Art, but grinned like a kid caught stealing.

"Tell you what," Art offered, smiling back. "We'll write up our report on Westman and close out the case. I'll have someone look a little extra hard into him and the others in this mess here and I'll keep you in the loop, let you know if we turn up anything. And you can keep me in the loop, especially if this is going to kick up into a storm in my district. As for tonight, how about I send Deputy Gutterson to join your pow-wow to talk rifles. I suspect that's really what you want."

"Are all the Lexington Marshals so direct?" Darling asked amused.

"You should hear us after we've been into the bourbon," interjected Rachel.

"Was that an invitation?" Darling responded, smiling at her.

She sniffed and looked down her nose at him, a difficult feat considering he was a foot taller than her.

Darling took down Tim and Art's cell numbers and gave Art the address in Louisville for the meeting. He tried to get Rachel's cell number as well but she just smiled coolly and told him to contact her through Tim if it was necessary. He shook both their hands and headed to his car.

"Was he flirting with you?" Art asked indignantly. "Shit, just when I was beginning to like him."

* * *

Special Agent Darling slid into the passenger seat of his car, letting his junior agent drive back to Louisville. Once on the road he started giving orders.

"I need someone to find me a better map of this area, preferably one that has all these back roads on it. And Anita," he said turning to an agent in the back, "run a quick check on that Marshal, Deputy Tim Gutterson. He's ex-military, a Ranger. I want to make sure he's not a flake or a fraud before we meet the DEA guys later. I don't want him embarrassing me if I let him present his ideas."

Everyone was on their phone in seconds and Darling turned to his notes. Their investigation to date was pretty sparse on fact. The FBI only had rumors and a growing suspicion that drugs were being moved in small amounts through a number of different states from one source in Texas, the same source apparently that the DEA were investigating. Now both their efforts were at a dead end, literally, in Kentucky. It was an interesting idea, spreading out the risk by dividing the product among a number of smaller carriers as soon as it crossed into the US, but obviously things hadn't worked out on this route.

"So," Anita said ending her call and tapping Darling on the shoulder, "I was just talking to Neil."

"Neil?" Darling repeated. "Who's Neil?"

"Neil at the office," she clarified. "I called him first. I remembered that he was a Ranger."

"Right, that Neil. Good thinking."

"And, coincidentally, he and Deputy Gutterson are friends. They went through Ranger school together."

Darling turned around in his seat, interested now. "And?"

"And, Gutterson's legit – talented sniper, a number of tours in Afghanistan. Got sent to the Marine Scout Sniper School at one point, graduated, did more tours. Honorable discharge. The only disciplinary note occurred when he threw-up during a medal ceremony – he and his spotter were apparently shit-faced. Neil's choice of words."

"I like him already," commented the agent driving.

"Neil said that when he left the military he was courted by a number of private security companies and law enforcement agencies - including ours for CIRG," she noted with a meaningful look at her boss. "He settled for the Marshals Service and has been pretty quiet since."

"Huh."

"Yeah, huh. I don't think he'll embarrass you," she concluded.

"Do we take it personally that he ditched us for the Marshals Service?" asked the driver with a wry grin. "Should I get a hate-on going for him?"

"Save it for the DEA guys," Darling suggested with a look of distaste.

* * *

Tim pulled into a parking spot on the street near the Louisville DEA office and sat in his truck thinking. Art had taken Rachel back to Lexington and suggested that Tim go directly to the meeting. Tim wondered why he was even bothering. He was pretty sure of his assessment of the situation but who from the DEA or the Feds was going to believe him.

He had made a call to his friend at the FBI before he headed to Louisville and left a message, so when his phone rang he wasn't surprised to see Neil's number on the display.

"Hey," Tim answered casually.

"Hey, Tim," said Neil. "What kind of trouble are you in now?"

"Excuse me?"

"My boss called earlier asking questions about you," he replied.

"Darling?" Tim asked.

"Yes, sweetie," Neil responded.

Tim could hear Neil giggling.

"Ha, ha," he said flatly.

"That's such an old joke around here. It's nice to have someone new to use it on," Neil said. "So you met Darling, huh? Did you piss him off or something? Anita wanted a full background on you."

"What exactly did you tell them?" Tim demanded, concerned.

"That you were an asshole, that you couldn't shoot worth shit and that you had to beg the Marshals Service to hire you," Neil summarized.

"Well, what a relief," Tim responded sarcastically. "I'd hate to think of you lying just to make me look good."

Tim watched a car pull up and several people, including Darling, got out and headed to the DEA building. "I gotta go," he said. "Your boss just pulled up. Can I call you back later?"

"Sure thing," replied Neil. "Where are you?"

"About ten minutes from your place. If I'm done early enough do you have time for a beer?"

"Call me when you're leaving."

Tim locked his truck and jogged across the road, catching up with the FBI agents as they entered the building. Darling greeted him and signed him in as one of his team and the group headed to the elevators.

When Tim was introduced to the lead DEA agent, Anthony Ortiz, the jerk from the porch, he had trouble keeping a straight face. A young FBI agent standing behind Ortiz was pretending to vomit for Tim's amusement. He stuck out his hand when Ortiz moved away.

"I'm Pete," he said.

"Tim Gutterson," Tim replied shaking his hand and grinning.

Pete was the only one in the room who didn't look comfortable in his suit. Tim figured he was new at the job and decided to like him.

"Ortiz is such an asshole. I was there when he was yelling at you on the porch," Pete said. "So you know Neil?"

"I'm afraid so," Tim replied, nodding his head sadly.

"Did you really throw up during a medal ceremony?" Pete asked grinning.

"Neil told you that?" Tim responded surprised. "What an asshole!" He laughed and looked embarrassed. "Yeah, well, we were just off a nasty three-day patrol. I should've had more to eat before we tackled that bottle."

Pete looked like he wanted to ask more about it but Agent Darling was making motions to start the meeting. Tim helped himself to a coffee and leaned against the back wall, wishing Art or Rachel was here with him. Pete settled in beside him instead and gave him a running commentary on the characters.

Darling ran the meeting efficiently, keeping people on track and the information flowing smoothly. At some point he introduced Tim by describing his weapons experience and asked him to fill them in on his conclusions. Tim treated it like a debriefing, nothing but the facts. There was never room for opinion when he gave his reconnaissance reports in the Rangers and he assumed the same attitude would prevail here.

Agent Ortiz spoke up when he was finished. "I'd like to hear from forensics. I just don't believe you could do that much damage with a rifle."

"Agent Ortiz," said Tim, speaking without any emotion, "I've seen first-hand what an M107 is capable of."

"Thank you, Deputy," Ortiz replied dismissively. He smiled at the group. "Can we move on?"

Tim told himself it wasn't worth pursuing and it certainly wasn't worth expending any effort being angry at Agent Ortiz. He took a deep meditative breath and focused his mind and his eyes on a spot in the neutral middle distance between himself and the_ asshole_ across the table.

Pete elbowed him and whispered, "Don't take it personally, he's always a dick."

Darling called for a break after an hour and Tim took the opportunity to slip out. He called Neil and met him for a beer before he headed home to Lexington, pulling up in front of his house just before midnight. Miljana was stretched out on the couch waiting for him.

She turned off the TV and twisted around, not wanting to miss her favorite part of the day, watching Tim unpack his arsenal. It was a source of endless amusement for her. She didn't think it possible to carry that much hardware and still function.

"Sucks working on Saturday," she said when the show was finished and he was taking off his boots.

"Drugs and murder, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week," was his jaded reply.

"Which was it today?" she asked.

"Both."

"No wonder you're so late. You should have woken me this morning," she scolded.

He walked over. She stood up on the couch and wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. "Bedtime?"

"Mmmm," he answered.

She let him do the all the work climbing the stairs.

* * *

**Author's Note:** For anyone who hasn't read **Aimpoint**, Miljana is an OC introduced in that story. You don't need to read it first. Just know she's a psychologist who got under his skin.


	4. Chapter 4

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Four**

Miljana got up from the table and retrieved the coffee. She filled up her mug and stood for a minute looking at Tim. Finally she sloshed the coffee around in the pot to get his attention. He held his mug out and she poured out the last of it and set it back on the counter.

Tim had his nose in a textbook. Miljana and Art had colluded to get him to take some courses toward a degree. It was a good idea, one more thing to keep him busy, but sometimes it was a little hard now to get his attention. She sat back down and stared at him. He put up his hands to block her view and kept reading. She continued to stare. He finally relented, lowered his hands, raised his eyebrows and looked at her.

"I'm going to my parents for dinner tonight. Can I convince you to come?"

Tim froze, caught in the cross-hairs.

"Hold it right there," she ordered, holding her hands out to frame his face in the classic photographer's pose. "I should get a picture for Psychology Today. It's the perfect shell-shocked expression."

He swatted at her hands and narrowed his eyes at her. "Very funny," he said.

"They'll be no threat to you, I promise," she coaxed. "They're usually unarmed."

"Parents don't like their daughters dating guys in law enforcement," he stated.

"And you know this from experience," she questioned.

The best Tim could come up with was a shrug. He had confessed to her weeks ago that she was the first girl he had been serious about since returning to civilian life. She had him and he knew it, but that was part of the attraction.

"I've already told them about you," she said. "They want to meet you."

"You told them about me?" he exclaimed, anxiety starting to edge into his voice.

"Tim, they were getting a little suspicious. I am never at my apartment when they call," she explained calmly. She reached over and ruffled his hair and smiled. "My family is so huge you'll hardly be noticed. And I promise you will not be the centre of attention. They have grandchildren."

"Okay," he conceded reluctantly. "What time?"

"We should be there for 4 o'clock."

He nodded. "You're lucky," he said.

"Why? Because I have a family?" she asked.

"No, because I don't," he stated. "You won't have to go through this."

"You're right," she replied. "I only have to deal with the closet full of skeletons. And I bet they're not too happy you're dating a psychologist."

"The things you say," he drawled, shaking his head.

She got up, slid over onto his lap and kissed his cheek.

"Can I bring my Glock?" he asked her.

"No."

"My Berretta?"

"No."

"My revolver? It's little."

"Fine," she relented and stood up to make more coffee.

Tim moved restlessly around the house most of the day. Well after lunch he announced he was going for a run. When he wasn't back by 3pm, she started to worry that he would never return. But he did.

Driving out of downtown, she watched him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, playing with the radio dials, and repeatedly wiping his hands on his pants, and she wondered if she was wrong to push him into meeting her family tonight. They had been seeing each other now for over nine months and she was careful not to heap expectations on him. She felt he was worth the effort. Her life was fulfilling and busy enough caught between research at the University and her part-time work at the clinic. She didn't need to rush anything either. But lately she was spending more and more time at his house and less and less time at her apartment and she was too close to her family to keep him a secret any longer without telling complicated lies.

If she could just get him in the door she knew her parents would make him feel comfortable. If she could just get him in the door. If.

They had passed under the Circle Road into the south end of Lexington when his phone rang. She could tell by the hardening in his face that it was work. He pulled over and fished for a pencil, writing an address down. When he ended the call, he turned to apologize.

"It's okay," she interrupted before he could start explaining. "Can you still drop me off?"

"No problem," he said and pulled back into traffic. She noted that the fidgeting had stopped.

He parked in her parents' driveway. She purposely and awkwardly crawled across him to get out the driver's side door, giving him a kiss on the way by. He grinned happily at her antics.

"Be careful," she said before closing the door. "I'll be here late talking, so if you're finished early enough come by. My brother can drive me home otherwise. I'll text you if he does."

Tim felt a twinge of guilt as he backed out the driveway. Art had given him the opportunity to decline since he had worked all day Saturday, but the situation was connected to the murders from yesterday and it made sense that he be there. And truthfully, Tim was relieved to have an excuse to get out of dinner. He would make it up to her later.

Art had explained it like this. Raylan had received a call from a terrified Harlan County native. He had confessed to being a member of the gang that had been executed in spectacular style in Clay County. The fellow was anxious to turn himself in for protection and since he had heard of Raylan, he only trusted him to pick him up.

Raylan had called Art. Art had called the Feds. The Feds wanted everything put on hold until they could get a team down to Lexington from Louisville. Art then called Tim to ask if he would sit security with Raylan at the address until the FBI arrived. He stressed that they were to do _nothing_ but wait. Art told Tim that he was also going to call Raylan back and give him the same instructions. He didn't want to give the boys any maneuvering room to allow for another scene with the Feds at his office.

Art was grateful for the department's phone plan.

Tim pulled over to the curb behind Raylan's car in a commercial area in downtown Lexington. He locked up, walked over and climbed into the passenger seat next to Raylan.

"Did we interrupt anything?" Raylan asked.

"Dinner with Miljana's parents," Tim replied.

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"I don't know, you interrupted, remember?" Tim replied sarcastically.

"Meeting the parents," said Raylan, looking over at Tim. "Big step. Are you ready for that?"

"You are not seriously trying to give me relationship advice," Tim said in amazement, turning to face him.

"I'm just saying."

"Well don't, Oprah. I don't want to have to shoot you," Tim responded.

"You'd never get the drop on me," Raylan boasted.

"You're right," Tim conceded. "That's why I'd shoot you in the back."

Raylan chuckled.

"I bet you used to practice your draw in the mirror when you were a kid," said Tim.

Raylan adjusted his hat and looked a little embarrassed. "Actually, I did," he confessed sheepishly. "Arlo always had a handgun in the house. I pretended I was Wyatt Earp."

"And now you're living the dream," Tim teased. "My dad had an old hunting rifle."

"I probably could have guessed that."

Tim checked his watch. "How long till the cavalry get here?"

"Probably another hour."

"Shit," said Tim. "Can we look around at least? It's possible whoever pulled the hit in Clay County is already set up and waiting."

"I'm happy to stretch my legs," said Raylan getting out. "Let's take a walk around the block."

"Which building is he in?" Tim asked.

Raylan nodded across the street at a door when they strolled past.

"Wish I could get up on that roof and take a look around," said Tim.

"I bet you climbed trees as a kid."

"Some. Climbed cliffs more," Tim replied. "I'm amazed I'm still alive."

"Well, that explains it," said Raylan nodding.

"What?"

"Must've fallen on your head a few times."

It was Tim's turn to chuckle.

They walked for twenty minutes, discreetly checking parked cars and rooftops. They didn't spot anything unusual after completing a few loops so they headed back to the car. Another twenty minutes passed before the Feds showed up in two conspicuous black SUVs. Tim recognized Special Agent Darling and friendly Agent Pete. He and Raylan headed over to greet them.

Darling shook Raylan's hand and clapped Tim on the shoulder.

"You're not wearing a vest," he commented.

"Won't stop a sniper bullet," Tim replied flatly.

Darling frowned and looked up at the roofs.

The SUVs pulled up by the door and Darling positioned his agents strategically at the corners, by the cars and in front of the building. Raylan and Darling knocked on the door. It opened a crack and Raylan peered in.

"It's your welcome wagon," he announced.

"Who's the other guy?" a frightened voice said from behind the door.

"Singing telegram, dipshit. Now can we get a move on?" Raylan ordered.

"I dunno," the voice said uncertainly. "Did you see what they're capable of?"

Darling spoke up, "Yes, I did. That's why I've brought an entire team of agents with me today, to ensure your safety. The faster we get you to the car the better."

Raylan pushed open the door, threw a vest on the man and dragged him outside. He and Darling shielded him to the car, but when he was within steps of the vehicle he stopped suddenly and backed up a few steps.

"I dunno…"

The bullet hit him in the head. He stood still for a second then toppled over onto the sidewalk.

Everyone pulled their sidearms except the Marshals. Raylan had worked with Tim enough to recognize a long range rifle shot. He just looked at the body and shook his head.

"Well, shit," he muttered.

Tim turned and looked up at the roof lines, pacing up and down the sidewalk. He glimpsed a flash of light to his left, in his periphery, and took off down the street at a run.

"Pete, follow him!" Darling shouted, pointing after Tim.

Tim stopped at the end of the block and listened. The area was quiet on a Sunday evening but he could hear a car starting. He turned and ran down the next street listening to the squeal of tires. He skidded to a halt in front of the exit to a car park just as a vehicle crashed through the barrier. Pete caught him in a full tackle, pushing him out of the way and they slammed into the curb as the car screeched past. Pete was up first. He drew and started firing at the retreating vehicle, but it sped away.

Pete lowered his weapon and stood, breathing heavily. Tim was still sitting on the road, shaking his head and trying to clear his vision. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead.

"You okay?" Pete asked when he noticed that the Marshal was still down.

"Yeah, thanks. You must've played football," Tim groaned as Pete gave him a hand up.

"Fullback in college," said Pete panting.

"Lucky me," Tim grimaced. "Did you get a look at the license plate?"

Pete nodded.

"I'm going to check the roof," Tim said, indicating the car park. He turned and limped toward the stairway, rubbing his arm.

Raylan and Darling caught up with Tim moments later. He was squatting down in a corner on the roof studying the ground.

"Anything?" asked Darling.

Tim just shook his head. "Not that I can see."

"I'll get a team up here."

Darling looked out over the low barrier and watched an ambulance and LPD cruisers pulling up back at the building a block down where the body was still lying on the sidewalk.

Raylan and Tim exchanged a look, both thinking the same thing. They should've ignored the order to wait.

"I think Ortiz is going to have to take you seriously now," Darling said turning and looking at Tim. He finally noticed the blood. "Are you okay?"

"Fullback," Tim stated.

"Ah, Pete," Darling nodded in sympathy.

* * *

Tim parked back in her parents' driveway just after 10pm and sat staring through the windshield at the house. The adrenalin had long since worn off and his head was pounding. He looked down at the blood on his shirt and sighed. He considered driving around until she called so he could just pick her up, but rejected the idea. He had to do this. He got out of his truck and walked up to the door. It opened before he reached it. A man about Art's age, obviously her father, was waiting.

Tim stepped inside and stuck out his hand. "Tim Gutterson," he said. "Uh, sorry I'm so late."

"Stevan Cajic," he replied, returning the hand shake and studying Tim closely. "_Doctor_ Stevan Cajic. You need stitches, young man."

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Five**

"Did you give him my phone number?" Rachel demanded.

Tim was sitting at his desk resting his face in his hands trying to rub away a headache. He looked up. Rachel was not happy. She was giving him her infamous stony expression, her hands on her hips.

"Him, who?" he asked, confused.

"Him, Special Agent Darling, who," she stated annoyed.

He pushed his chair back a ways from his desk because she looked like she was going to reach over and smack him.

"I wouldn't do that," he said raising his hands in the air defensively. "He called you?"

"Yes, he called me," she said. "So how did he get my number?"

"I dunno," he shrugged. "He's FBI. I'm sure it wasn't that hard. What did he want?"

"To tell me that they found the car that almost ran you over abandoned outside of town and wiped clean," she explained. "They had it towed to their Louisville office."

"Uh-huh, okay."

"Uh-huh, okay," she repeated looking at him suspiciously. "You really didn't give him my phone number?"

"No!"

"Fine. Lunch?" she suggested in a pleasant tone with a smile for him.

The way Rachel could just change direction like that made his head spin. She and Miljana had a few things in common and he suspected they would like each other or at the very least have a healthy mutual respect. Rachel kept suggesting he bring Miljana next time he came over for dinner but he was nervous about being in a room with both of them at the same time. Thinking about it made his headache worse. He put on his jacket and followed Rachel to the elevator. Maybe food would help.

Rachel waited until their sandwiches came before she started quizzing him.

"So, you had dinner with her parents," she stated.

"You and Raylan," he said in disgust. "Is that all you do? Gossip?"

"We only gossip about you," she said between mouthfuls.

"Why me?"

"Because everyone else is on the other side of the room," she explained. She laughed at the worried expression on his face. "Oh, relax. He was just filling me in on what happened Sunday. How was dinner?"

"I got there late with blood on my shirt and the knee blown out of my jeans, packing my sidearm and both my backups. Her father stitched up my head and her mother plied me with food." He gave her a discouraged look. "I think I made quite an impression."

"Jesus, Tim, you should have let the car hit you," she laughed outright.

"That was my plan, but some asshole tackled me."

She reached over and patted his head. "I'm proud of you for showing up at all."

"That's exactly what Miljana said," he responded looking at her fearfully.

Rachel imitated the theme music from the Twilight Zone and laughed at him again.

Tim looked up suddenly at the door and pointed. "Is that Agent Darling?" he asked.

When she whipped her head around to look he stole the pickle off her plate. There was no one at the door and she turned back to him annoyed. He was licking his fingers and grinning at her knowingly.

After lunch Art waved Tim and Raylan into his office. When they were seated he crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes and stared at them.

Tim and Raylan glanced at each other then back at Art.

"What?" Tim finally said.

"I just got a call from Agent Darling," Art replied.

"Only just?" Tim asked. "Huh, Rachel got one this morning."

"Darling called Rachel?" Art sat up. "Did you give him her phone number?"

"No!" Tim replied. "Why does everyone think it was me?"

Raylan settled more comfortably into his chair, amused by the exchange. He turned to Art and asked, "So, what did we do to piss them off this time?"

"Nothing." Art shrugged, looking as surprised as Raylan and Tim. "He called to compliment you both."

"Why, how condescending of him," said Raylan.

"I am thrilled to have pleased the Federal Bureau of Idiots," added Tim.

"He should have let us handle it," Raylan commented. He was still angry at how the events unfolded Sunday evening. He took it personally that a witness was killed who had asked him for protection. "Tim would have seen the shooter if he'd been _allowed_ to set up on the roof. And I don't think the witness would've spooked if it had just been me."

"Darling about admitted as much, without coming right out and saying they fucked up," Art stated. He stretched back in his chair and looked at Tim. "Do I need to be worried about you?"

"What?"

"You rushing headlong into dangerous situations. Have you got a death wish or something?" Art demanded.

"He told you about the car?" Tim asked, chagrined.

"No, your face did," said Art, pointing to the stitches on Tim's forehead. "Be more careful, you idiot. You should know better."

"I told you so," piped in Raylan.

"You did not," argued Tim.

"Did so."

"Did not."

"I suggested maybe you were rushing things, remember," said Raylan.

"You were talking about my relationship," Tim replied indignantly.

"What about your relationship? You're not proposing, are you?" Art exclaimed, looking horrified. "Tim, that might be rushing things a bit."

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Are we done, here?" Tim huffed, getting up.

Raylan, laughing, stood up too and headed for the door ahead of him.

"Best not turn your back on me," Tim warned.

Raylan glanced over his shoulder, challenging him. "Any time, kid."

"I have a prisoner transport for tomorrow and I was trying to decide who to give it to," said Art. "Nice of you boys to volunteer."

He leaned over and penned their names in on his schedule.

* * *

The following Saturday, Tim headed to Louisville to meet up with his old Marine sniper buddy, Tim Weaver. He couldn't call him Tim Weaver anymore because Tim Weaver was officially dead. So each time they got together Tim would jokingly ask him what name he wanted and Weaver would make up something on the spot. Last time he had spent an entire evening answering to Priscilla.

Tim walked into the bar at the address he had been texted and looked in the corner farthest from the front door and closest to the rear exit. He spotted his buddy in a booth and wove through the tables to meet him. It was one of the few times that Tim would willingly sit with his back to the door, a small concession to Tim Weaver's career choice.

"Hey," Tim grinned, accepting a hug. "You look like shit. Nice beard."

"It blends in anywhere," his buddy replied running his fingers through his facial hair and striking a dramatic pose.

"So? What'll it be today?" Tim asked.

"Call me Sue."

"Great. A boy named Sue. Couldn't we go with Steve or Dave or…Tim?"

Sue just smiled annoyingly.

"Okay, Sue."

The waitress came by and brought two beers and some wings.

"Thanks for ordering. I'm hungry," said Tim digging in appreciatively.

"You're always hungry," Sue responded. "Hey, I hear you have a girlfriend. Say it ain't so!"

"Who'd you hear that from?" Tim asked suspiciously.

His buddy zipped his lips.

"You are so fucking annoying. Why do I keep saying yes to drinks with you?" Tim said shaking his head.

"Because you miss me."

"Hardly."

"What's she like?" his buddy asked.

"What, your mystery source couldn't tell you?" Tim replied, concentrating a little too hard on his beer glass.

"Oh, my God," Sue exclaimed. "You really like her!"

"Of course I like her," Tim said, embarrassed. "It wouldn't be fun if I didn't. It's easy, you know?"

"No, I don't know. Dude, are you going civilian on me?"

"Dude, I think that was the point of quitting the military," said Tim.

Sue laughed and wiped wing sauce off his mouth. "Though Kentucky Marshal isn't working out to be a quiet career for you. I heard what happened last week."

"How'd you hear about...," Tim started then checked himself. "Forget I asked."

"You be careful around those Mexican cartels," Sue said, looking serious for a change.

"And what do you know about it?" Tim asked curiously. He hadn't said anything about the case. It was obvious that his buddy had a contact somewhere.

Sue shrugged, "How involved are you?"

"Not very."

"Keep it that way," Sue said ominously. "I think your assessment of the weaponry was accurate."

Tim didn't bother asking how he knew about a short verbal report he made to the DEA a week ago.

"I saw the photos from the scene. That was some nasty ammunition they were using. You're thinking hollow point, huh?" Sue asked. "Not Raufoss?"

"My opinion? Hollow point."

"I've never seen them used," said Sue, raising his eyebrows at Tim. "Is there a story?"

"I was out once with my team hunting hard targets once, so we were using .50 cals. We were done and waiting for a ride back to base. One of the guys had a few hollow point rounds stuffed in his pocket. Brought them from home. Handed them out like candy," Tim chuckled. "We fired a couple at an abandoned building, amusing ourselves. Then the shit hit. I guess we'd stumbled upon a cache of Taliban weapons and they came out of the building shooting. There was no way we were taking the time to sort out the ammo, so we ended up firing a couple at them." Tim wasn't laughing anymore. He twirled his beer glass, thinking.

"Where was the intel on that one?" asked Sue.

Tim shrugged.

"And you think I'm scary. Jesus, buddy," Sue said imagining the carnage.

"You know the .50 cal was never designed for soft targets," Tim replied defensively. "Anyway, I'm only scary behind a rifle."

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that."

They drank in silence for a few minutes, remembering.

"I guess that old house could be considered a soft target," Sue laughed.

"Uh-huh."

"I was surprised you didn't find the bodies hanging from a bridge somewhere like they do it in Nuevo Laredo," said his buddy. "It's more the style of the guys who pulled the hit. Speculation is they're either from the Gulf cartel or Los Zetas."

"Los Zetas," Tim mused. "I know that name. I heard they're ex-military."

"You heard right. The Gulf cartel was the first to hire Mexican military – special forces guys – for security. They ended up with their own private army. Then the private army got tired of taken orders and split forming Los Zetas. They're bitter rivals now and both are dangerous. They all have access to the kind of fire power you're describing and more, and they have trained snipers," Sue explained. "How good was the shooting?"

It was Tim's turn to shrug. "Hard to say," he replied. "There's been nothing outstanding. But that doesn't mean anything. A good sniper's always going to look for the easiest shot."

Sue nodded. "Did you know," he added, "they've actually tried catapulting drugs over the border. It's turning positively medieval down there."

"No shit," Tim chuckled. "I'd like to see that."

They turned the conversation to other things and passed a good part of the afternoon laughing. Eventually Sue looked at his watch and got up.

"Got to catch a flight," he said dropping some cash on the table. "See you around, buddy."

They shook hands and he left.

Tim finished his beer and paid the bill and drove back to Lexington. He pulled up in front of his house and was happy to see his girl on the porch. She had dragged a blanket outside and was curled up reading. He thought about Tim Weaver's comment. He _was_ turning civilian. There was a time he didn't think it would ever happen.

She smiled as he came up the steps and made room for him under the blanket. It was cramped in the chair and she ended up on his lap. Some days he was tempted to be a real hick and move a couch out onto the porch. Not that he minded his current situation.

"Good visit?" she asked.

"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," he replied.

* * *

Only one _pendejo_ left to eliminate and then they could go home.

Torrent loved to watch his brother with a rifle. He had made a good shot in Lexington. His brother was an excellent marksman, that's how he'd earned his nickname, _El Tirador_, the Shooter. The Feds were definitely on to a sniper now, but they were no match for him and his brother. It was a close call, making it out of the car park without a fight, but Torrent loved the adrenalin rush. That's how he decided on his nickname though he preferred it shortened to the English version. He came on like a torrent, _El Torrente_.

Their American contact had said he would find the last man standing for them. He had given them a name, Bart Mosely, and Señor Mosely was wearing a nice fat target.

* * *

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	6. Chapter 6

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Six**

The US Marshals Service had been running a tactical team, their Special Operations Group, since 1971. Any Marshal could volunteer for duty with the SOG provided they could demonstrate that they had the necessary skills. Tim remembered the day in his first year when he was called into Art's office and introduced to the District Chief. He had caught wind of Tim's military history and suggested to him that not volunteering would be career limiting. Tim considered limiting his career. Art told him to buck up.

Tim was angry with Art at the time for not backing him when he said he wasn't interested. He understood that his boss was just trying to help him make good career decisions, but it still stung. It was only two years since Afghanistan and he just wasn't ready.

He was immediately put on the list for the next training course, with a cursory pre-interview conducted only as a formality. He dutifully showed up at Camp Beauregard in Louisiana on the first day of training and worked hard. It wasn't a challenge compared to Ranger school, but by the end of the four week course he was a wreck. The seventeen hour days, the close quarter combat training and the sound of helicopter rotors had triggered a cycle of nightmares and by the last week he was hardly sleeping and the daytime flashbacks were getting to be a problem. He held it together, barely.

No one seemed to notice, or maybe they didn't want to, and now he was officially on the roster. Regular team exercises and bi-annual full SOG personnel training were now part of his Marshal duties. As a marksman he had to attend special sniper sessions and submit monthly cold-bore rifle qualifications. And he was on call 24/7 for tactical deployment. He spent a lot of time out of the office. It sucked.

They asked him to join SOG full-time. He said no.

The real kicker came when they asked him if he wanted to volunteer to be part of the security and training detail being sent to Iraq. He said no. The District Chief visited again. Tim was called into Art's office and it was suggested that he might want to reconsider.

Tim couldn't stay in the room. His rage flared up in an instant and he didn't think he could control himself. He stood up and reached for his sidearm.

"You want fucking career limiting?" he spat.

He had never seen Art move so fast. He was up from behind his desk and standing with his arms out between Tim and the District Chief before Tim had finished his sentence. Tim could read in the panicked-look on Art's face what he was thinking and it made him even angrier. Tim was only reaching to unclip his holster from his belt, _not_ his handgun from the holster. He looked Art straight in the eye as he handed over his sidearm and his badge and then he walked out.

He took three hours to get home so he wouldn't have to patch any walls.

That evening Art had shown up at his door with a bottle of bourbon and an apology and he returned Tim's sidearm and Marshal's star. He told him that he had threatened the District Chief with a slow and bloody death if he ever broached the subject with Tim again.

Art poured a couple of drinks and offered the idea that Tim could just mess up his monthly rifle qualification and get dropped from the SOG team.

It was the first but not the last time he would hear Tim say, "I don't miss."

A few hours and some pizza later Art had to call his wife to come pick him up. He and Tim had worked through their differences and the bottle of bourbon.

Almost two years had passed and Tim had grown comfortable with his SOG duties, though it was still his least favorite part of the job. He didn't flinch when the text came in from his team leader. He was most of the way to work, so he kept going, thinking he'd report in to SOG from his desk, have a quick chat with Art and collect a few things before hopping the plane to Louisiana.

He was surprised to see Special Agent Darling sitting in the Chief's office when he walked in. He stopped at Rachel's desk to find out what was going on.

"Art wants to see us. He told me to collect you when you got here," she said, clearly annoyed. "Darling wants us in Louisville."

"I got to be in Louisiana," Tim responded.

"Don't you dare leave me alone with him," Rachel said in a harsh whisper waving a finger under Tim's nose.

"I've seen you deal with guys," Tim replied, his eyes going wide. "If I decide to blow off SOG it'll be to protect him not you."

She rolled her eyes and pushed him toward Art's office.

"You first," she ordered.

Darling stood up and shook their hands. He received a 'hey' from Tim and a cool 'Special Agent Darling' from Rachel.

"Please, just Paul will do if we're going to continue working together," he said amiably. "Can I call you Rachel and Tim?"

"Sure," replied Tim.

"No," said Rachel at the same time.

Darling pretended not to hear her. "Great, that makes it easier."

He opened up a file and passed it to them. "This is Bart Mosely. The DEA have finally opened up a little and given us some more information. This fellow is the only man left alive, that we know of, who is connected with the Kentucky drug route. We need to find him and get him into WITSEC as soon as possible."

"Uh, sorry to interrupt, but I got a call from SOG this morning," Tim said, turning to Art. "I'm probably wanted in Louisiana."

"Actually, I've already spoken to your team leader," Darling interjected. "He's on board with this. I requested your team for security duty when we pick up Mosely. But I want you with me until we have to call in the rest of the SOG team. It just makes sense to have an experienced sniper handy considering what we're dealing with."

"And Ortiz is cool with this?" Tim asked.

"It's not his call," Darling replied.

"Okay, then."

"And Rachel," said Art, "you'll be handling the WITSEC procedures. You're both on loan until further notice."

Tim was happy with the arrangement if it meant not having to run off to Camp Beauregard. Rachel on the other hand didn't look so thrilled.

"Just be ready to go," Darling added. "We have reason to believe that Mosely has already left Kentucky. He's from Texas, so that's where we're concentrating our search."

"Why don't you just use the Marshals there?" Rachel asked curtly.

Normally unwaveringly professional, her peevish tone made both Art and Tim look at her in surprise. Fortunately Darling didn't know her well enough to notice the difference.

"The fewer people who know about Mosely, the better," he explained.

Art turned back to Darling, puzzled. "Are you concerned you've got a leak?" he asked.

"It's just a precaution," Darling replied.

Art noted that he wouldn't meet his eye when he answered. As he stood up to leave Art signaled to Tim and Rachel to stay behind.

"I'm not sure I like this," Art stated after seeing Darling out and closing the door. "How do you two feel about this whole thing?"

"I guess it's a little suspicious that the hit men knew where Raylan was meeting the witness," suggested Rachel.

"Speculation is they're with the cartels, Mexican, ex-military, and very dangerous," added Tim.

"Who's speculating?" asked Art suspiciously. "That's not in the FBI report." He tapped a file on his desk.

Tim tilted his head to the side and blew out a breath. Art stared at him, waiting.

"Don't ask," Tim said.

"I'm not asking, I'm demanding," Art responded.

"I have a friend," Tim said vaguely. He waved his hand through the air. "He's a reliable source of information." That's all he would offer.

"That's not good enough," said Art, clearly annoyed.

"Well, that's all I'm willing to say," Tim stated rubbing his hand on his forehead then unconsciously moving it down to cover his mouth.

Art sat back, folded his arms and gave Tim a penetrating look. Tim met his gaze and held it, undeterred.

"I'm not withholding any information that is pertinent to this case," Tim said slowly.

"Alright," Art conceded. "But I don't like all the secrets and the sly looks. I'm getting enough from the Feds. Don't you start!"

"Anything I hear, I'll tell you," Tim promised.

"I don't like loaning out my people," Art muttered. "If either of you gets a bad feeling, or the hairs on the back of your neck start standing up… If you catch a whiff of any information being withheld that's putting you in harm's way, you call me. I'll raise hell for you."

* * *

Rachel and Tim got the call from Darling two days later. He told them to pack for a week and join his team at the Louisville airport. The rest of Tim's SOG team were going to meet them at the final destination point but Darling wouldn't tell them what that was over the phone. The secrecy deepened Art's scowl and he repeated his concerns.

"Call me if you need me," he said, shooing them out the door.

"Okay, Dad," said Tim grinning. He ducked past Art, just missing the smack aimed at his head, but Rachel landed one when he got to the elevator.

"Thank you, Rachel," said Art.

"He likes me better," she said smugly when the elevator doors were closing.

Tim offered to drive to Louisville and arranged to pick up Rachel at her house in an hour. He tried calling Miljana but she was with a client so he left her a text, packed his gear and headed out to the truck.

He stopped on the porch thinking, then went back inside and hunted through every drawer in the kitchen looking for a scrap of paper. He finally found an old pizza flyer, scrawled a note on the back and stuck it to the fridge. Satisfied, he threw his gear in the truck and headed out of town.

* * *

**Author's Note: ** I forgot to post this last chapter. Thanks to fangirl29 for help with the nicknames - "El Tirador" and "El Torrente". My Spanish sucks.


	7. Chapter 7

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Seven**

Tim and Rachel had no trouble spotting the FBI team at the Louisville airport. They were conspicuously clean cut and suited. The Marshals shared a chuckle at the Feds expense and walked over to meet them. Rachel maneuvered to get a seat next to Tim when they boarded the plane. He fell sound asleep shortly after take-off like always, leaving her happily enjoying some quiet time reading a magazine. He woke an hour later and got up to walk around a bit. His knees were stiff.

He was amused to find Darling in his seat when he returned and had to cover his face with his hands to keep from laughing out loud at Rachel's expression. He walked a couple of rows farther down the aisle and took a free seat beside Pete.

Pete was perusing the latest Major League Baseball statistics online but shut the computer when Tim sat down and started pestering him with questions about his time in the military. Tim gave short answers and deftly steered the conversation back to baseball. It wasn't hard. Pete was a sports nut.

When they landed in Houston, Tim was surprised that Rachel didn't seek him out. He looked around and saw Darling helping her collect her check-in luggage. They rode in separate cars to the hotel and he didn't see her again until they all met for dinner.

Tim expected to spend the meal discussing work but Darling told them all to relax until the next morning when the DEA team was arriving and they could all attend a briefing. So the evening was surprisingly enjoyable. Tim sat between Pete and Anita, dishing out stories about Neil during Ranger school as retribution for his tattling earlier. Rachel sat next to Darling, talking and smiling.

The next morning Tim knocked on the door to Rachel's hotel room before breakfast. When she answered he walked in without waiting for an invitation, took a few steps, stopped and spun around to look at her.

"I smell sex," he said accusingly, narrowing his eyes at her.

She huffed, grabbed her bag and marched past him back out into the hall.

"Wait till I tell your mother," he threatened, following her.

"You will do no such thing!"

"It was Darling, wasn't it? You two disappeared pretty quickly after dinner last night."

She was glad he was walking behind her so he couldn't see her face.

"It's none of your business."

"Ha, it was Darling." He pressed the down button for the elevator and considered his discovery while Rachel fumed indignantly.

"Art is going to fire your ass," he finally said.

"Excuse me? For what?" she snapped.

"Sleeping with the enemy," Tim explained.

"The enemy?"

"He's a Fed! F.B.I." he said, drawing out the letters for emphasis. "You can't date him."

"I'm not dating him. It's just sex," she responded, frustrated now that he'd needled her into admitting it.

"Just sex? What kind of a girl are you?"

She looked at him to see if he was serious. "Don't tell me you're old-fashioned," she snorted. "I find that hard to believe."

The elevator arrived and they stepped on. Tim was looking sideways at her and grinning, enjoying getting under her skin.

"I'm definitely telling your mother," he said, looking straight ahead with his arms crossed.

"And why would you do that?" she asked testily, her hand on her hip.

"Because she's scary, and she'd expect me to keep an eye on you while we're here."

Rachel huffed. "Like I need looking after. Good lord, you're the one that needs looking after." She crossed her arms angrily and glared at him. "I didn't think you were a prude. Afraid of Mom, I believe."

"Just sex," he repeated in mock-disbelief and shook his head.

"And why not?" she demanded. "Why does everyone think I want a man in my life? I have a man in my life – Nick. If I want more than that, there's always someone willing."

"Apparently."

"Jesus, you're annoying this morning," she snarled and punched him.

He laughed, so she punched him again and once more for good measure. He backed away from her toward the front of the elevator still laughing so she reached up and slapped his head as the doors opened. She never could stay mad at him. They tumbled into the lobby giggling, Rachel still smacking him, right into a group of DEA agents talking with Darling. He was the only one, other than the two Marshals, who looked amused.

* * *

Everyone involved met in a conference room at the Houston FBI building where Ortiz gave his brief of the situation. Bart Mosely had been under surveillance by the DEA for a number of years. He had been running back and forth the last few months between Texas and Kentucky and Ortiz's people felt it was only a matter of time before he reappeared in Houston. They had the address of his apartment, his girlfriend's apartment and his office. They had filed for and received a warrant to freeze his bank accounts in case he decided to empty them and run. They had made it known through informants that they were willing to offer him protection if he made contact. Now they just had to wait.

Ortiz explained that the threat to Mosely's life was fortunate for them since he would likely turn himself in and could provide valuable intelligence about the drug operation in Mexico as well as the US. He might even be convinced to turn state's evidence against some of the bigger names north and south of the border in exchange for a spot in the Witness Protection Program.

Tim and Agent Darling spent the afternoon visiting the three locations where Mosely was likely to surface. Ortiz had surveillance teams stationed around the clock at each address and Tim and Darling amused themselves trying to spot them. Tim also surveyed the area with a sniper's eye, looking for good positions for the SOG team to deploy and for possible locations where a hitman might set up.

Everyone believed Mosely would stay hidden and call in. That would be the best scenario for him and them since they could mobilize the Marshals' SOG and the FBI tactical teams and provide the best security. If he was stupid enough to just show up at his apartment, thing's might not go as smoothly.

By 4pm the work had been completed. Tim and Rachel met up in the lobby of the hotel and were lounging on a sofa discussing their day when Darling walked in with Pete.

"I've got to get better walking shoes," Darling commented, flopping in a chair across from them. He looked longingly at Tim's practical boots.

Rachel glanced down at Tim's footwear and wrinkled her nose. "Do you even have any other shoes?" she asked.

"I have another pair just like this," he said, looking at his feet.

"I meant a different type of shoe," she qualified for him, speaking slowly like she was talking to an idiot.

"I have runners."

"I've never seen them," she said.

"I wear them running," he replied, grinning. She was easy to tease.

"Poor Miljana, she must have the patience of a saint," Rachel remarked sympathetically.

"She's in bare feet and old jeans the minute she walks in the door. It's a match made in heaven," Tim said. "Though it's a problem when I take her up to the old house. I have to keep on her to wear boots out near the woodpile. That girl's going to step on a snake."

"That's your idea of a romantic getaway?" asked Rachel, making a face.

"She thinks so," he replied.

Rachel snorted. "You need to bring her over for dinner so I can talk some sense into her."

Tim looked at Darling and rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh, like that's ever happening."

Special Agent Darling grinned but wisely kept his mouth shut.

Tim decided it was time to change the subject. "Anybody want to go get something to eat? I'm starving."

"No, I'm not hungry yet," replied Rachel.

"Thanks, but I need to sit down and take my shoes off," said Darling. "I'm going to relax in my room for an hour."

"I'll go," said Pete.

When they'd left Darling smiled over at Rachel. "Well, what do you want to do while the kids are off playing?"

* * *

_The sun was low and bright and setting in the direction he was heading. He squinted, shielding his eyes, and licked his lips again. They were so dry. But it was cold and he was cold and shivering and sweating. Where was everyone? He could hear them shouting but he was alone, scrambling up a rocky hill. He was struggling, not making any headway, not able to gain a purchase on the rocks rolling out under his feet._

_A figure appeared on the ridge, silhouetted against the blue sky. He was in danger. It was his buddy and he had to warn him. He tried desperately to yell out, but couldn't. His voice cracked and fell on the rocks. Not rocks, bodies and they were everywhere and they were soldiers and he couldn't help them. He had to stumble over them to get to his buddy who was turning to him. He could see his face now. It exploded outward and the blood started gushing, running in rivers, pushing him back down the hill. He screamed out in frustration…_

Tim woke suddenly. He had yelled out in his sleep. The room was quiet but his ears were ringing. He curled up and closed his eyes until his heart stopped racing then rolled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. He filled a glass of water and drank it down. Then another. Hotel rooms were always so dry.

He peeled off his t-shirt, soaked through, and threw it in the bath tub. He found a dry one and put it on, cold now, and dumped himself into a chair, staring blankly at the dark room. He reached over and picked up his phone which was lying on the table beside him. He wanted to call her. She was up early during the week. He checked the time on the display, 2:47am. She wasn't up _that_ early.

He threw the phone on the bed and walked over to the bar fridge. Plunking himself cross-legged on the floor in front of it he started fishing through the bottles until he found the bourbon. He sat holding it for a while then carefully put it back, shut the fridge, got up, pulled on his track pants and went for a run.

* * *

**Author's note:** Thanks again to Red Molly for ideas throughout about firearms and bourbon. Disclaimer: No bottles were harmed in the making of this story.


	8. Chapter 8

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Eight**

The hotel restaurant opened at 6:00am. Tim ordered a coffee and sat reading until Rachel appeared an hour later and joined him. She sat down cautiously anticipating a fresh bout of teasing but he just said a gruff 'morning' and held out his cup for more caffeine when the waiter came by.

She looked at him, concerned. Art had alluded to Tim's nightmares once and Tim had shrugged it off lightly with a comic comment but Rachel was observant and had a pretty good idea these days what he looked like on the morning of a troubled sleep.

"Bad night?" she asked.

"Good night?" he shot back impatiently, glaring at her across his cup.

She gave the menu her attention.

They had finished their breakfast when Agent Darling strode in and made a beeline for their table.

"We've got to move, now!" he said sharply.

"What's going on?" Rachel asked, standing up.

"I'll explain in the car. Meet out front," he ordered.

Tim chugged back some more coffee and sprinted after Rachel to the elevator. They made it back to the lobby in five minutes and were ushered impatiently to the car by Anita.

"Agent Ortiz called," Darling explained as they pulled away from the curb. "Bart Mosely has turned up at his apartment."

"What an idiot," said Pete. "Does he have shares in a funeral home or something?"

"Are they certain it's him?" Rachel questioned. She couldn't believe that Mosely, who'd managed to avoid being part of the carnage up until now, would just show up at his apartment. It didn't make any sense.

"DEA surveillance has confirmed it," Darling replied. "Ortiz has sent some of his people in to make contact and keep Mosely away from the windows. They'll keep him there until we're sure it's all clear." He stopped and looked at Tim. "There's no time to get the rest of your SOG team to Houston. FBI tactical is down in Corpus Christi for a hostage situation so for now it's just us."

"If the sniper shows up and we can find him, I'll take him down," Tim responded confidently. He closed his eyes and pictured the area around the apartment, glad now that he and Darling had done a quick reconnaissance the previous day. His only concern was the distance to target. If the Mexican was good, he might set up outside the perimeter that they'd scouted yesterday. The DEA only had so many men on the ground to cover the buildings.

Of course, Tim thought, it was always possible the hitman would just blast the apartment with an RPG. That's what he'd do.

The team met up in the block behind the apartment building. Rachel pulled Tim to the side when they arrived. She put a hand on his shoulder and bent over slightly so she could speak quietly in his ear.

"I don't like this. I've been thinking about it on the way. It makes no sense," she whispered. "Why would Mosely go to one of his _known_ addresses, one with exits just on the front? I don't understand why the DEA just didn't get him out of there immediately. Do they know something we don't?"

She pulled back and looked at him, eyes wide with concern. "Paul thinks the DEA have a leak, and that makes me think this is a set up to flush it out."

Tim considered Rachel's theory. He was a job-at-hand kind of guy; he got it done. She, on the other hand, was good at looking at the bigger picture, putting all the pieces together and making intuitive leaps. And she was often dead-on in her assessment of a situation. He slowly nodded.

"Don't stick your neck out," she said.

"Just the muzzle," he agreed.

"Not your muzzle, either," she ordered, grabbing his chin and giving it a shake.

Darling's phone rang. He had a quick conversation then turned to Tim. "They've spotted someone. He's farther out than we thought he'd be. He's in the next block north on the tallest building. DEA are on their way over to see if they can take him on the roof but let's get in position for a shot if we have to take it. Geez, he must think we're pretty stupid not to be on the lookout for him," he said shaking his head.

"Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance," Tim responded thoughtfully.

Darling raised an eyebrow.

"Sun Tzu, The Art of War," Tim explained.

"Right. Well, so far we've been good at pretending inferiority," Darling said with a wry grin.

"Let's see just how arrogant he is then," Tim replied with a cold smile.

The team drove in a wide arc a block to the east of the sniper. Tim chose his building and Darling sent Pete inside with him. In order to get high enough to have a shot, Tim had to make do with a roof that offered little cover. He did have the sun at his back though and he was a little behind his target. It would do. He assembled his rifle and told Pete to stay inside out of sight. Pete got the word that the DEA agents were blocked from reaching the sniper and that gave Tim the green light.

He went out onto the roof, edged to the corner of the stair box and peered around. He could see the sniper on the next building but didn't have a good line from where he was crouched. He got down and face-dragged his way slowly over between two large air conditioner units. He could just fit between them and their shadows provided camouflage against his dark clothing and cap as he moved forward into a firing position. Satisfied with the angle he proceeded to set up his rifle, careful not to make any sudden movements that might attract the target's attention.

Agents in an adjacent building were keeping an eye on the sniper. They watched curiously as the man put a finger to his ear and twisted his head. He was in communication with someone. Their curiosity turned to concern when the sniper pulled up his rifle and twisted around 90° to the east. They relayed the information to Ortiz; Ortiz called Darling; Darling yelled at Pete through the radio to pull back just at the moment that Tim put his eye to the scope to take a look and dial in the fine adjustments.

He was staring into the muzzle of the sniper's rifle. Tim took in the situation with professional detachment.

"Fuck."

He didn't have time to squeeze back between the units. He didn't dare stand up and run. He had only one option, to shoot. He just had to be faster than his opponent.

He took a breath. No time for fancy, he'd do it off-scope. He was not going to lose confidence in his shooting abilities now. _Slow is smooth and smooth is fast_, he whispered as he did a quick mental calculation for windage and bullet-drop, ticking it off on the reticules. A slight adjustment for the upward angle, a calming breath and he squeezed the trigger.

He heard a round strike the air conditioner behind him as his followed through on his trigger. He looked into his scope, searching for an indication of where his shot hit. He couldn't see the sniper anywhere. He cursed again and started shuffling his way backwards for cover.

When he was clear he sat with his back to the box and let the adrenalin kick in. His hands started shaking.

Pete was peering out the door. "Are you okay?"

"Where is he?" Tim called. "Can anyone see him?"

"He's down. You hit him," Pete answered, giving him the thumbs up.

"How did he see me?"

"He had an earpiece," Pete replied, pointing at the side of his head to illustrate. "He was talking to someone."

Tim looked around at the roof tops in his view, suddenly feeling exposed. He got up and ran, crouched over, to the stair box to join Pete. He ducked inside and sat on the top step, dropping his head in his hands.

"You've been shot," Pete exclaimed.

"No, I heard it hit behind me," Tim said shaking his head.

"You're bleeding," Pete said, pointing at his shoulder.

Tim looked. He was bleeding.

"Huh, I can't even feel it," he said and then it started to sting.

Rachel made Tim sit down in one of the vehicles when he and Pete appeared at street level.

"You okay?" Darling asked peering over Rachel's shoulder.

"I'm fine."

"I told you not to stick your neck out," Rachel scolded.

"I can't shoot him if I can't see him," Tim stated.

"You should go to the hospital and get it checked. We don't want the lawyers after us if you have to have it amputated later," Darling ordered, adding the joke to ease the tension.

"I'll take him," Pete volunteered.

"You have a fan," Rachel whispered, smirking.

"So do you," Tim replied, in a low voice. "He's making goo-goo eyes at you right now. Or maybe he's just looking at your…"

She smacked him to shut him up.

By the time Tim arrived at the hospital he was happy for the painkillers the nurse was liberally handing out. It wasn't a serious wound, passing through just under the skin on the outside of his shoulder. He was grateful that the shooter wasn't using his .50 caliber today. They cleaned him up, wrapped him up, gave him a sling and sent him back to his hotel with more painkillers and a fresh supply of bandages.

Pete dropped him off at the hotel and went to find his team. Tim wobbled to his room, collapsed on his bed and fell asleep, happily drugged.

He woke up when his phone buzzed.

_Hey Tim2, trying to be Hathcock? _

Tim raised an eyebrow and texted back.

_Hey Sue, trying to be funny?_

His phone buzzed again.

_Nice shot._

Tim had been asleep for hours and woke up hungry. He didn't feel much like sitting in a restaurant, so he flipped open the room-service menu and wondered how far over his per diem it would put him. He thought maybe he could justify it for medical reasons and was deciding how to frame that argument for Art when there was a knock at the door.

Rachel was standing in the hallway grinning and holding two pizza boxes. Darling, behind her, was waving a bag that was suspiciously shaped like a liquor bottle.

"Those had better be full," Tim said standing aside to let them in. "Especially the bottle."

"Aren't you on pain killers?" Rachel asked him.

Tim swiped the prescription bottle off the table and flipped it into the garbage can across the room.

"Good shot," nodded Darling.

"Good idea," nodded Tim. "I'll get the glasses."

Tim settled on the bed, leaving the chairs at the table for his guests. He propped one of the pizza boxes open on his lap and started working his way through it, reaching over for his bourbon between slices.

"Thank you," he said appreciatively, tipping his glass at Rachel.

"Wasn't me. Paul paid for it," she smiled.

"I would have let you have her for just the pizza," said Tim.

Rachel whipped a crust at him. He caught it and ate it.

Darling raised his glass at Rachel. "Deputy Brooks," he toasted her. "She was worth a truck load of bourbon today."

"What did you do?" asked Tim, looking at her askance.

"Rachel caught out Ortiz in his web of lies," replied Darling. "She had him stammering in front of his people and my people. She was up in his face. It was beautiful. He was backing away from her while she laid out all the facts – that she knew he had already picked up Mosely and that he was using all of us to find a leak in his organization."

"Which he was trying to cover up," Rachel added indignantly.

"How did you know he already had Mosely?" asked Tim.

"I didn't. I bluffed," she answered with a smug grin.

"Never play poker with Rachel," Tim advised Darling.

"She ripped Ortiz a new asshole. It was…" Darling paused looking for a worthy adjective.

"Bad-ass?" suggested Tim, grinning.

"Awe-inspiring?" offered Rachel.

"My best moment on the job, ever," Darling concluded.

Rachel beamed.

* * *

Torrent checked into a roadside motel outside of the city with a bottle of aged tequila.

The moment the shot hit he knew his brother was dead. He had seen the other sniper through his scope and tried to warn him but there was no time. He had packed up and headed down to the street from the roof he was using as his surveillance point, walking away from the scene. No one would pay any attention to another Mexican-American in Houston, Texas. He strolled casually to their car, a gym bag over his shoulder, and drove as far as he could until it was dark.

_Habr__í__a tiempo para la venganza despu__é__s, un ajust__ó__ de cuentas._ _Nadie mata un sicario sin consecuencias, _he promised himself as he drank the tequila._  
_

* * *

**Author's Note:** More thanks to fangirl29 for help with Mexican/Spanish vernacular!_  
_

Translation: "There would be time later for vengeance. No one kills a cartel assassin without consequences."


	9. Chapter 9

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Nine**

Tim insisted that Rachel take the remainder of the bourbon back to her room at the end of the evening. She knew better than to argue. He wasn't trying to be polite. The following morning they met for breakfast again and she thought he looked worse than he did the previous day. He confessed to fishing the bottle of painkillers out of the garbage in the middle of the night but she suspected it was more than his shoulder keeping him awake and said as much.

He drank his coffee in silence and Rachel was resigned to his stonewalling her again.

They ordered and when the food came he didn't eat much.

"I sleep better when she's around," he said finally, playing with the eggs on his plate and avoiding her gaze.

Rachel knew who he meant. She waited patiently, hoping he might say more.

"Some guys I know started sleeping in separate rooms from their girlfriends when they got back. They said it worked better for them that way. They're too nervous of what they'd do, you know, if they got woken up suddenly."

She thought how little she knew about what he went through, what he was dealing with. She suspected it was Miljana's influence that was making him open up a bit.

"I've read about other guys who are the opposite. They're used to never being alone, on patrol or in barracks, so they sleep better with somebody there." Tim shrugged, "I guess I'm like that."

"When are you going to bring her around for dinner?" she prodded gently.

He looked up at Rachel and huffed. "You don't let up, do you?"

She arched an eyebrow at him. Tim likened the motion to chambering a round.

"Fine, this Sunday," he relented. "Your mom won't mind?"

"Mind? She'll be relieved," Rachel exclaimed happily. "You can go play Xbox with Nick and Miljana can run interference between Mom and me. Maybe she can figure out why it is that woman makes me so mental."

They split up after breakfast, arranging to meet back in the lobby in an hour to head over to the DEA offices. Tim was surprised when Rachel showed up at his room half an hour later. She handed him a piece of paper when he let her in. It was a flight itinerary.

"I got you on a flight back to Louisville this morning," she said.

He frowned and looked at her. "Why?"

"They have Mosley in a secure location. There's only some administrative work left here for us and I can do that on my own just fine," she explained. "I cleared it with Paul. Go home and get some sleep."

He hesitated. "You don't mind?" he asked.

"You're kidding, right?" she replied and smiled slyly.

He crossed his arms and stuck out his chin and put on his best Art face. "I understand how difficult this is going to be for you, having to put up with the FBI agents on your own. Especially that asshole in charge, Special…"

"Better get packing," she interrupted, turning him around and pushing him into his room. "You don't want to miss your plane. I'll say good-bye to Pete for you. He's so cute."

"Cute? The guy's a truck!"

"Bye," she called over her shoulder as she walked to the door. "Enjoy your flight."

* * *

Tim drove back into Lexington around 4pm. He knew Miljana wasn't finished until later that day so he decided to check in at the office and drop off his rifle before picking her up. Art was walking through the doors into the hall when Tim stepped off the elevator. He took one look at the sling and threw up his arms.

"Jesus, Tim, what now?" he exclaimed.

Tim just looked at him.

"Drop that off then meet me in my office," he ordered, pointing at the rifle case.

Tim arrived back just as Art was pouring out three shots of bourbon from his stash. He slid one across the desk for Raylan who was already seated and handed another to Tim.

"Special Agent Darling was kind enough to send me a bottle of Maker's Mark as a thank-you for letting him take you and Rachel away for a couple of days," Art said cheerfully, waving the remains of a bottle for Tim to see. "Raylan and I have been drowning our sorrows every afternoon, we've been so lonely."

Tim thought gratefully of Rachel and figured Darling should make good and send a truck load.

"Does the FBI need any more help? The bottle's almost empty," complained Raylan.

Art chuckled and lifted his glass for a toast but stopped halfway up and pointed a finger at Tim.

"Are you on any medication that shouldn't be mixed with alcohol?"

Tim set his glass down, reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of painkillers. He launched them into the garbage can with practiced ease and picked up his bourbon again.

"Nope."

"Terrific then," Art smiled. "Cheers."

They drained their glasses and Art poured a second round. Tim settled into a chair beside Raylan.

"So, what happened?" Art asked after taking a sip and smacking his lips appreciatively.

"I got into a stand-off with another sniper," Tim explained. "He got the worst of it." He took another mouthful of bourbon and smiled grimly at them. "I'm just grateful for the rapid fire tricks I was taught by that Ranger from Iraq. It's a different kind of war there than in Afghanistan."

"You mean the two of you were aiming at each other?" Art clarified, motioning with his hands.

"Yep."

"At the same time?"

"Uh-huh."

"I thought that only happened on TV?" said Raylan.

"When did you get a TV?" Tim asked him.

"There's one in the bar."

"You must watch it a lot, then," Tim responded.

"Maybe I didn't miss you as much as I thought."

Tim smiled. "What's been happening here?" he asked.

"Oh, not much," said Art. "Raylan had Dewey Crowe in. That's always entertaining."

"I let him use your desk to make a phone call," said Raylan, grinning mischievously at Tim. "I didn't think you'd mind."

Tim looked horrified. "Aw hell, I'm going to have to burn all my stuff," he said. "I'm worried that what they got down in Harlan is contagious."

"Dewey's from Florida," Raylan corrected him.

"Shit, then it is contagious!" Tim exclaimed.

Raylan rolled his eyes to the heavens, hoping for patience. "You got a prisoner transport for him tomorrow?" he asked Art hopefully.

"As a matter of fact," said Art, pulling his schedule over for a look, "I do. It's nice of you boys to volunteer. You'll need to head down to McCreary first thing." He picked up a pen and wrote in their names.

Raylan and Tim exchanged a chagrined look.

"You two just never learn," Art chuckled.

Raylan glared at Art. "Tim," he said, "I think we have a wonderful opportunity here. We'll be spending most of tomorrow together, sitting in a car with nothing to do but watch the scenery fly past. I'm sure, in that time, that you and I can work out some suitably evil plan for vengeance."

"The enemy of my enemy…" said Tim, smiling.

"Solidarity, brother," replied Raylan.

They clinked glasses to seal their partnership. Art drew his eyebrows together in concern.

* * *

Tim left the office and swung by the clinic where Miljana was working part-time. He thought he'd surprise her and was rewarded with a grin when she spotted him. She ran to the truck and hopped in.

"You're back early," she said happily, leaning over the console to give him a hug. She kissed him and stuck her face in his neck then drew back and wrinkled her nose. "You smell like airplane."

"You smell like home."

He grimaced and flinched when she squeezed tighter. He had taken off the sling before picking her up, hoping to save that conversation for later.

"What happened? Are you hurt?"

"It's nothing serious," he assured her. He pulled out into traffic and ignored the unasked questions.

She looked him over carefully, taking inventory.

"You look tired. Bad night?"

"Bad nights," he replied. "I'm going to have to start taking you with me."

"Could you expense it?"

"Yeah, sure. Let me talk to Art," he suggested. He grinned, imaging the conversation and the look on his boss's face.

"Did everything go okay?" she asked.

"Yep."

Something in his demeanor made her pry. "If I were still working at the Courthouse, would I have gotten a report on my desk about you today?"

He tilted his head to the side and blew out a breath but didn't answer.

"Shit," she said. "Is there no one else who can take these shots?"

"No one with my training," Tim replied. "He was an assassin with a drug cartel, another sniper."

"So it's okay for you, then?" she concluded.

He didn't answer.

"You said to me once that it never bothered you," she reminded him, hoping to rattle something loose.

"I never said that," he responded impatiently. "I said I never had any trouble pulling the trigger. That's different."

_Yes, it is_, she thought. "And at the end of the day someone's still got to pay the butcher's bill," she added for him.

He frowned and adjusted his hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at the traffic. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, noting the tension in his arms, how he was trying to look like he was concentrating on his driving. Eventually the silence got to him and he glanced over at her.

"What?" he asked.

"I feel like such a fraud," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm thinking about something a veteran said once – I read it somewhere. He said we were '_like virgins studying sex_'," she explained.* "You see, I'll never understand what it's like for you."

"I hope not," he stated vehemently. "I'll do the shooting. You do the talking. Okay?"

"Okay," she said. She made her hand in the shape of a gun and pretended to draw. "I'll shoot from the lip."

He laughed out loud. And later, when his nightmares woke him up, she wrapped herself around him and kept him in bed until he fell asleep again.

* * *

*Quoted in Lt. Col. Dave Grossman, _On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society_, (Back Bay Books/Little, Brown and Co., New York)


	10. Chapter 10

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Ten**

"Raylan, Tim," Art called from the doorway to his office. "Where are you going?"

"Down to McCreary, like you told us," Raylan replied, stopping and turning around.

"Forget that. I sent someone else," said Art, waving them over.

Raylan smiled at Tim. "I think our evil plan worked."

"I got a call from Rachel this morning," Art started as soon as they walked into his office. "She should be back tomorrow. She faxed this over for you." Art handed a piece of paper to Tim. "They identified your sniper. Jorge Garza, also known as _El Tirador_. Seems your source was right. He's Special Forces trained, Mexican military."

"You've got a source," Raylan said, peering under the brim of his hat at Tim.

"Yeah, but he's not sharing," Art complained.

Tim looked at the information on the page. There was a photo. It was the first time he had seen the man's face. He handed it back to Art without comment.

"About all this," Art said, frowning at Tim. "You need to have a sit down with the new shrink."

"Aw, come on, Chief," Tim huffed in disbelief. "I live with a psychologist."

"She's living with you now?" Raylan asked, raising his eyebrows.

Tim ignored him and looked at Art with his hands out in supplication.

"Nope, I'm sorry but I need a report to put on file," Art explained.

"But she's easy to talk to."

"Yeah, I know. She answers the phone anytime I call your house and we have a nice chat."

"Can't she sign off on it?" Tim pleaded.

"No, that's a bit like a note from your mother. It may be okay for your grade school teacher, but the Marshals Service needs something a little more official."

Tim blew out a breath and dropped his head.

"Aw, look at him," Art cooed. "He's so cute when he's discouraged."

"I should just move my desk down to the hall outside the psych office," Tim complained.

"That can be arranged," Art said getting grumpy. "Now, come on, I've got a fun job for the two of you today."

"Oh, shit," said Raylan.

Art scowled at them. "Some days, I just want to smack the both of you."

* * *

"Is that him?" said Raylan, nodding in the direction of a disreputable looking man exiting an apartment building.

Tim looked across the street then down to the file he had sitting on his lap.

"Nope. Too small. Think elephant."

Raylan sighed, took off his hat and rested his head on the seat back.

"How's it going with Arlo?" Tim asked turning his head to look at Raylan, grateful all over again that his dad had been thoughtful enough to die.

"Don't ask," Raylan replied wearily.

"Okay."

The sun was out, heating up the car and putting them both to sleep. Art had sent them out chasing a tip from a Crime Watch call. The fellow they were waiting for, Milton Haywood, had been arrested for theft and fraud in Atlanta, had skipped bail and had subsequently been implicated in an armed robbery. He had apparently skipped the state as well. The good citizen who called in the tip had been able to describe in detail the unusual tattoo on the man's neck making it a pretty sure bet. So Art wanted someone on it immediately.

Art wasn't convinced that Tim was up to 'being all he could be' today so he put the two of them on the call on the chance that the armed robber was still armed. The Marshals had been sitting in the car since they left the office. It was 11:30am and the caffeine was wearing off.

Tim started twitching.

"I have got to get out of this car," he said, gritting his teeth.

"How is it that you managed to sit on a target for three days in Afghanistan, yet you can't manage three hours in Lexington?" Raylan asked.

"Motivation. If I'd gotten up to stretch there, I'd have been shot," Tim replied. "I think I'm okay to get out of the car here." With that he opened the door and climbed out.

Raylan joined him.

"What do you say we go chat with the building manager?" suggested Raylan leaning on the roof of the car and squinting up at the sky.

"Didn't Art say to wait until Haywood showed up?" Tim reminded him.

"Yep," Raylan replied. "I'm just… going to wait inside." He headed across the street.

Tim jogged to catch up.

The building manager was a mean woman who could've been forty or sixty, they couldn't tell. As soon as she saw their Marshal's stars she started demanding they pay the back rent that Milton Haywood owed her. Tim stood back, keeping an eye on the hallway, and let Raylan do the talking. Raylan explained to the woman that they might be able to get her the money but only if Mr. Haywood was in custody. She started yelling at him. He just shrugged at her and turned to leave. She relented and suggested that they might want to try the pool hall down the next block. Haywood would shoot pool till they started serving and then he would shoot pool and drink till they closed.

Tim and Raylan headed down the street. While they were waiting for the light to change they watched Milton Haywood amble out of a convenience store on the opposite block, opening a pack of cigarettes. Raylan had his hands in his pants pockets and his jacket tucked behind so his star was visible on his belt. Haywood saw it, saw them watching him, turned abruptly and started running the other way. Half a block down, he ran out of steam and bent over double, puffing for air. When he caught his breath, he hobbled a bit farther then gave up and ducked into an open doorway.

Tim and Raylan dodged the oncoming traffic and weaved their way across the street, running once they reached the other side. They followed Haywood into the building. It was an all-day Bingo hall.

The room was reasonably large and littered with tables and chairs around a central raised platform where the Bingo caller was relaying the pulled numbers into a microphone. The tables close to the outside were empty but filled up rapidly closer to the caller. The room was thick with cigarette smoke and eerily quiet except for the shuffling of feet and the intermittent, reverent voice of the caller.

It was impossible for Haywood to be inconspicuous. He was over 300 pounds, tattooed and the only one in the hall, other than Raylan and Tim, who wasn't a senior. Red-faced and sweating, he was clearly not going to outrun them so he decided it was a good time to reach for his handgun. Tim and Raylan had their sidearms drawn before Haywood could get his out from the back of his pants. They split up and moved forward. Again, in unspoken agreement, Tim let Raylan handle the negotiating and he stayed back to cover.

"Now, now, Mr. Haywood," Raylan coaxed, walking slowly forward with his weapon pointed at the floor and the other hand out, entreating. "That's probably not a good idea."

"Shh!"

Raylan looked around to see who was hushing him and Haywood started backing his way into the area with occupied tables, raising his revolver.

"Mr. Haywood," Raylan warned, turning his attention back to the fugitive. "I don't want to shoot you and neither does my partner here." He motioned to Tim. "Though he's already shot someone this week so he's warmed up."

"Would you be quiet!" snapped a particularly tiny old woman in red runners sitting right next to Haywood. Both he and Raylan looked over at her in stunned disbelief. She was working eight cards at once and didn't even glance up at them.

"Mr. Haywood," Raylan repeated in a whisper, "how about you set your revolver down on the floor, nice and slow, and then put your hands up, nice and high, so my partner doesn't get jumpy."

Haywood hesitated and glanced at Tim. Tim twitched on cue. Haywood brought his free hand up to his chest and a look of surprise flitted across his face. He turned a funny shade of grey and fell face first onto the floor.

"Shit," Raylan exclaimed.

He and Tim ran forward with their weapons aimed at the suspect but he was no threat. He wasn't breathing. Raylan pulled the gun out of his limp hand and turned to Tim.

"Heart attack?" he asked looking confused.

Tim holstered his weapon and heaved the man over checking for a pulse then started CPR. Raylan dialed 9-1-1 and gave orders to the operator.

"We have a possible heart attack at the 24-hour Bingo Hall on…" he started.

"Shhhhh," the woman hissed. "I can't hear."

Raylan gave the address then turned to the woman. "Ma'am," he said politely, pointing down at Haywood, "this man's just had a heart attack."

"I said be quiet," she snapped. "You made me miss the last number!"

"BINGO!" a voice called from across the room.

The elderly woman who had hushed Raylan stood up and yelled out, "I didn't hear the last number. It's not fair!"

The caller just shrugged and awarded the win to a gentleman on the other side of the hall. She sat down angrily.

Raylan looked at Tim in astonishment. "Do you believe this?"

Tim was too busy doing chest compressions to respond.

Raylan called out to the room, asking if anyone there was a doctor. The woman stood up again, shuffled over to Raylan and poked him with her stamp.

"If you can't be quiet," she snapped at him, "I'm calling the police!"

"Ma'am," said Raylan a little less patient now. "I'm a Deputy US Marshal. Please sit back down and stay out of our way."

She drew back and walloped him with her purse.

"Hey," Raylan yelled out in surprise. "Lady, sit down. I don't want to have to ask you again."

"Or what?" she challenged, all four feet, ten inches of her quivering in indignation.

"Or, or," he stammered looking to Tim for help. "Or I'm going to arrest you for assaulting a federal officer!"

She pulled back to swing her purse at him again but he reached over and yanked it out of her hand. She opened her mouth in an 'O' of surprise and started yelling for help.

"Oh, for crying out loud," he snapped.

Fortunately EMS arrived at that moment, and Raylan had to give them his attention. He dropped her purse on her table and motioned them over to where Haywood was laying on the floor. Tim stood up to let the paramedics take over and put himself between Raylan and the irate senior, hoping he wouldn't have to handcuff her. She collected her cards in a huff and moved to another table.

The caller continued with the next game.

Milton Haywood was dead. The paramedics were not able to revive him nor could they give a pronouncement. Tim and Raylan followed the ambulance to the hospital to have a doctor sign off and make Haywood's death official. Afterward, they drove back to the office in silence.

Art held the door open for them when they returned.

"How'd it go," he asked.

"Tim killed him with a look," Raylan replied, walking past him to his desk.

"Military training," Tim added, following.

Art decided he wasn't in the mood. He'd read the report later.

Tim sat staring at his computer screen. Finally he looked through the barrier at the older Marshal and ran his hand through his hair. There was obviously something bothering him.

"Raylan, are you going to put that lady in your report?" he finally asked. His tone clearly said '_please say no'_. "I don't know how I'm going to write it up without it sounding really bad."

"I'd rather we just left that part out," Raylan replied carefully.

"Okay, I can do that," said Tim looking relieved. "Hopefully she won't file a harassment suit. We might have to shoot her then."

Raylan smirked, then chuckled, then started laughing. Tim joined him, laughing until his sides hurt. Eventually he stopped, wiped the tears from his eyes and started typing.

"Do you have anything to eat over there?" Tim asked. "I'm starving."

Raylan opened his top drawer and threw him a chocolate bar. It hit the barrier and skipped out of Tim's reach landing on the floor to his right. He rolled his chair over and leaned down to pick it up. At that second, his window exploded inward sending shards of glass flying and his computer screen was blown off his desk in pieces.

Tim threw himself to the floor and yelled out, "Get down! Get down!"

The Marshal's office seemed to come alive. A series of explosions danced their way down the length of the room, blowing out windows, smashing computers and furniture, and blasting holes in walls and doors. Tim scrambled along the floor through the glass and debris to the hallway and headed to the armory. He grabbed his rifle and sprinted up the stairs, out onto the roof of the courthouse. He ran to the front of the building and peered over the low wall. Working the bolt to chamber a round he aimed his rifle over the top and started searching the roofs and windows opposite. He couldn't find anything.

He looked down to the street and saw Raylan, sidearm drawn, pacing out front, looking up. He turned and saw Tim and signaled to him. Tim shook his head. Nothing.

He scanned the buildings across the street one more time, looking for any movement then sat back against the wall and took a deep breath. He ejected the chambered round and switched the safety on and headed back inside.

* * *

xxxxxxxxxx


	11. Chapter 11

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Eleven**

Tim walked back into the office still carrying his rifle, unwilling to put it down yet. Art was standing in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, surveying the damage.

The attack had been quick and brutal. Tim and Rachel's desks, positioned directly in front of the windows, had taken the brunt of the impact. Everything across the room on the same sight line was also hit hard. Both doors to the conference room were shattered and the table badly damaged and one of the solid doors to the locker room had been smashed off of its hinges. Paper, computer hardware, glass and splintered pieces of furniture littered the floor. Only Art's office was unscathed, standing out like an oasis in the destruction.

"See anything?" Art asked.

Tim shook his head. He stepped gingerly across to the wall behind Raylan's desk and examined a hole that had been punched through the cement, spraying dust and debris over the surfaces nearby. Tim, his face drawn with worry, turned to Art.

"Look familiar?" he asked his boss.

Art mirrored Tim's expression and let out a long sigh. "I was hoping you wouldn't say that," he replied, rubbing his head. "It brings to mind the scene in Clay County. Am I right?"

Tim just nodded.

"Jesus, Tim," said Art. "Are they coming after you?"

Tim stared at him, thinking. "How would they even know I was involved?"

"I talked with Rachel earlier today when you and Raylan were out. She said that the DEA have confirmed they have a leak, but they still have no idea who it is. Maybe he gave these guys your name," he suggested. "As you just pointed out, this is certainly their style."

Tim didn't want to believe it, but there was no other explanation for the attack. He let his eyes wander around the room, unseeing, and he thought through his options, falling back on his training. He needed to put himself inside the mind of his enemy, 'dirty-thinking' was the phrase they used for it in the sniper teams, and consider how best to turn the tables, turn the hunter into prey. _Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance, _he repeated grimly to himself_. _He needed some help with this prey.

"Well, by some miracle no one was seriously hurt," Art said, pulling Tim back to the present situation. "We're lucky most everyone's out today."

Raylan appeared at the door and stood staring at the mess, at a loss for words. Tim picked up Raylan's hat from the shelf, dusted it off and walked it over to him. Raylan checked it for damage then put it on with a nod of thanks.

"Did you see anything outside?" Tim asked him.

"Not a goddamned thing," he snarled. "What the hell were they using? There are holes through the outside wall!"

".50 caliber," Tim said. _Maybe Raufoss rounds this time_, he thought, _for the concrete_.

"Who?" asked Raylan angrily. "Who the hell's got a .50 caliber? And why the hell are they shooting it at us?"

"Cartel assassins," Art answered, his tone flippantly suggesting a normal day at the bureau. "It's a common problem here in Kentucky, Raylan. I'm surprised we haven't run into it before."

"Jesus, Tim," Raylan said. "You pissed off the wrong people."

"You know, you sounded like Art just then," Tim commented.

"Isn't this glass supposed to be bullet-proof?" Raylan demanded, pointing at the gaping holes where the windows used to be.

"There's not much that'll stop an armor-piercing round," Tim dead-panned.

Art and Raylan stared at him.

They could hear sirens now, moving down the block toward the courthouse and they all turned to look outside.

"What the hell took them so long?" Art grumped.

"Would you rush out to this?" Raylan replied.

Everyone, firefighters, LPD and EMS, plus any courthouse staff that could get access, came to take a gander. Even Judge Reardon made an appearance and preached to all in earshot the virtues of defensive walls and barbed wire. The paramedics armed themselves with tweezers and bandages and picked glass, bits of concrete and wood splinters out of hands and faces, but that was all anyone could really do.

Art, sitting calmly at his desk in his pristine office, looked almost comical in contrast with the chaos in the bullpen. He made a phone call to get someone in to start cleaning up the debris and to replace the windows and doors. Then he called the District Marshals office and told them to expect a hefty string of purchase orders. He contacted Rachel to explain the situation and get her to pass on the information to the FBI and DEA agents involved in the case. And finally he made a quick call to the Deputies who weren't in-house, not wanting them to hear the news second hand.

Some of the courthouse staff offered their help, so Art sent them on various errands, including a trip to the store for a new coffee machine. Even the small refrigerator had a hole in it.

While Art played circus master, Raylan and Tim went with LPD to scout across the street. The shooter had left the M107 set up in a building where the two top floors were empty and for lease. It was a brazen daylight attack which left every law enforcement officer on the scene shaken.

Art commandeered a storage room in the basement as a temporary work space for his Deputies. It was already set up with long tables and chairs, and though a little cramped, it was serviceable. They scrounged enough working parts to put together three computers to share among them and carried down anything else that could be salvaged.

"I feel safer down here," Art said, looking around the room in satisfaction. "They'd have to drop a bomb on the building to get to us. I don't suppose I need to worry about that, do I?"

Tim shrugged.

"I'm looking for a little confidence here," Art demanded.

"They're not going to drop a bomb on us," Tim recited obligingly. "How's that?"

"That'll do."

Tim sat down to phone Miljana. He briefly described what happened and told her he didn't want her heading to his house after work. After a few minutes of silence he checked his phone to make sure he still had a signal, the basement was an unreliable place to make a wireless call, but it showed two bars.

"Milja? Mil?"

"I'm sorry. I was thinking. I'm in shock. Where are you staying tonight?" she asked, her voice strained but calm.

"Your apartment?"

"I'd like that."

Tim had managed to talk Art out of putting a watch on him by arguing reasonably that the cartel assassin wouldn't have had the time or the resources to do much more than find the Marshals offices and maybe the address for Tim's house in the two days since the Houston shooting. He felt safe going to Miljana's for the night with a just a few precautions. Art had given in and watched him go and then he called LPD to put surveillance on both Tim's house and the apartment.

As a sniper, Tim was required to take advanced level escape and evasion training, including one course specifically designed for an urban environment in anticipation of his possible deployment to Iraq. But the tricks that were useful tonight were all ones he'd picked up during conversations with his buddy, Tim Weaver, and he tested them all to ensure he wasn't being followed when he made his way on foot to Miljana's apartment. He felt like Jason Bourne. If the assassin weren't so dangerous he would have found the whole exercise incredibly amusing.

Miljana was curled up watching a baseball game when Tim showed up at her door. It was a shared passion and he happily joined her for dinner on the couch. She had played shortstop from the time she and her family had moved to the States until she finished her undergraduate degree. It kept him amused watching her twitch every time a line drive or grounder was hit between second and third base.

His phone buzzed when he got up to get a beer between innings.

_Tim2, fax num?_

Tim texted back the number for the fax machine in Art's office.

_El Torrente, Victor Garza, brother, SF, Zs. Got your back._

Tim stood in the kitchen thinking, digesting the information. So Jorge Garza had a brother, Victor, another Special Forces trained _sicario_ from the Los Zetas cartel. He hated the feeling of being hunted and remembered something his old Sergeant would say, 'sometimes the best defense is a good offense'.

_Can we talk? _Tim replied.

_I'll get back to you._

He sat down on the couch, setting his phone nearby, and pulled Miljana's legs across his lap to start a hunt of his own for exposed skin.

"Not interested in the game anymore?" she asked him, smiling.

"I'm multi-tasking," he said.

* * *

Early the next morning, Art was in conferring with the contractor who had brought a crew to start the clean up. Rachel and Special Agent Darling stepped off the elevator and stopped short at the double doors into the office.

"Jesus," breathed Rachel. She stepped over the piles of broken glass and picked through the debris around her desk, rescuing a few photos.

"I had no idea it was this bad," said Darling in a hushed voice, trying to help her.

Art watched the two of them moving together and sighed. Maybe he'd assign her a desk away from Tim and Raylan when they got the office in order again. His Rachel was turning to the dark side. He patted the contractor on the shoulder leaving him to it and walked over to welcome her back. He shook Darling's hand.

"It's a disaster," Darling remarked, awestruck by the scene.

"I'm pleased to hear you say that. It's the look we were going for," Art commented wryly. "Remember that old house where we first met?"

Darling nodded.

"Tim liked the décor so much, he hired someone to redo the office in a similar style," Art explained, waving his arms around the room. "I think they got it about right."

"I'm glad you can laugh about it," Darling replied.

"Yeah, well, crying's boring."

"Is everyone okay?" Rachel asked, concerned.

"Fine, just mad as hell," Art answered. "We've set up in a room in the back of the basement for now. Go on down. I'll meet you there. There's a brand new coffee machine brewing a fresh pot."

Tim was sitting at the table when they got to the temporary office. He looked up and smiled grimly and slid a piece of paper across to them. Rachel picked it up.

"Victor Garza?"

"The sniper has a brother," Tim said, indicating the fax she was holding.

She handed the report to Darling and he read it through.

"Where did you get this?" he asked. "It's not an FBI report, or DEA."

Tim screwed his face into a knot. "A friend," he answered evasively.

Darling stared at him, waiting for more.

Tim rubbed both hands over his face and gestured to the end of the room. "Coffee's fresh," he offered.

Darling continued looking at him.

"You just stay right there. I'll get some for you," Tim said, standing up and moving away from the attention.

Darling followed, waving the report at him. "Can I have this?"

"I already faxed a copy to your Louisville office."

Darling reached for his cell phone. "How's the reception down here," he asked, scrolling through the display.

"It sucks," said Tim, pointing to a phone with a land line.

Art came in as Darling finished up his call. He asked if there was anything his office could do to help. Art suggested that finding Victor Garza would be a nice gesture.

"I'll see what I can do," he grinned. "I'd better head back. I need to talk to Ortiz about all this."

Rachel accompanied him out on the premise that she was going to get donuts for everyone. Art followed the two of them with his eyes and then turned his focus to Tim. Tim pretended to be busy wiping invisible dust off the table.

"You knew about them, didn't you?" Art accused him.

Tim kept quiet. There was no point in pretending innocence with Art.

"Secrets and sly looks," Art mumbled grumpily. "You've been spending too much time with the Feds. You're picking up their bad habits. And I'm not even going to ask where this came from." He picked up the fax and waved it in Tim's face.

"Here Chief, let me get you a coffee," Tim offered.

* * *

**Author's Note:** The Raufoss Mk 211 is an armor-piercing incendiary round for the .50 caliber rifle, recommended for use against light-armored vehicles or helicopters or Marshals offices. It pierces and then explodes. Just for you Red Molly. Yippee ki-yay!


	12. Chapter 12

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Twelve**

Later that morning Art signed for two cases of Maker's Mark delivered to the Lexington Marshals Office courtesy of the Louisville FBI and DEA. Art opened a box and reverently pulled out a bottle to show them.

"As if that's going to make everything alright," Rachel huffed.

"It's a good start," Raylan and Tim piped in at the same time.

"Darling must've ordered this before he even left Lexington this morning," said Art, shaking his head. "He's messing with my whole perception of the FBI."

Art handed out a bottle to everyone and kept what was left for his desk supply. Being Chief had its perks. He then walked to the end of the table and clapped his hands to get everyone's attention.

"Alright, Deputies," Art called out. "Impromptu meeting. Raylan, do not open the bourbon here."

"Unless you offer him a glass first," someone commented under their breath. Everyone laughed.

Art ignored them and passed out copies of the photo of Victor Garza.

"We have a reliable source," Art started, looking to Tim for a comment.

Tim just smiled and shrugged and continued swinging his chair.

"We have a reliable source," Art repeated, "who has identified the vengeful, psychopathic, drug-cartel-linked, ex-Mexican-military-Special-Forces piece of shit who shot up our office. Have a good look. He is to be considered extremely armed and extremely mean and extremely dangerous. We killed his brother and he's out for blood. Anyone who is not currently working a high-priority case is on this asshole. I've sent bulletins to everyone from the Feebs on down and I'd like him caught before the Rangers win the Division Finals."

As Art laid out the game plan and assigned tasks, Tim's attention was diverted by a text.

_Tim2, bad coffee, 15min_

_K, _Tim sent back, trying to be discreet by holding the phone under the table. He felt like he was back in high school sending notes during class.

"And Tim," Art said, startling him, "I had the bomb disposal team check your truck this morning. They gave it the all clear. It's up to you if you want to drive it or not, just make sure your insurance premiums are paid up before you turn the key in the ignition."

"Uh, thanks?" Tim responded amid the chuckles.

When everyone stood up at the end of the meeting, Tim took the opportunity to slip out and head for the side exit. He jogged behind the buildings then out to the street a block down from the courthouse. He walked quickly for a few more blocks then ducked into an old diner that served the worst coffee in Lexington, bar none. Tim Weaver was waiting for him at the back.

"Hey," Tim greeted him as he slid into the booth. "That was fast. Were you in Kentucky already?"

"Hey, buddy," Weaver grinned. "I got in this morning. Didn't want to leave you hanging."

"I appreciate it."

"You know you could have just missed. Is this guy, Mosely, worth it? You've probably only given him a few more months of breathing time. The cartels will never let him testify."

"I don't miss."

"Yeah, I remember that about you."

The waitress dropped off a couple of coffees. Both Tims took a sip and grimaced in unison.

"Gawd, that's awful," groaned Weaver.

He set his cup down and draped his arms across the back of the bench.

"By the way, we unofficially appreciate you taking care of Jorge,_ Il Tirador_," he added in a pathetic attempt at a Spanish accent.

"We?"

"_We_," he said vaguely, "have been after him for a while. Now, if _we_," he said, gesturing back and forth between himself and Tim, "can take care of Victor, too, I'll consider this an excellent month."

Tim felt the weight lift off his shoulders. He had been more tense than he realized.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm glad to see you," Tim said seriously. "I need your help on this one."

"No, you don't," his buddy smiled, "but I didn't want you having all the fun."

* * *

"Where were you?" Art demanded when Tim reappeared.

"Uh, taking a shit?" Tim said, wide-eyed.

"Yeah, right. That is the worst excuse I've ever heard," Art grumbled.

He put his hand on Tim's shoulder and steered him toward a quiet corner. He wasn't inclined to stay angry at him today. Tim was already in a hurricane of trouble that Art knew was entirely undeserved.

"Look," he said. "It's been one of my worst fears that you'd end up in a situation like this just for being a good shot and doing your job. Why don't you take your girlfriend and get out of Lexington for a few days? Just lay low somewhere. We've got the guy's picture. Darling tells me they've even got Customs watching the border for him. It's just a matter of time before he turns up and we nail him."

Tim couldn't believe his luck. He had been trying to think of a way to sneak out of Lexington without raising Art's suspicions and now he was being handed the opportunity. He tried to look angry at the suggestion.

"Chief, I'm not afraid of this guy."

"Well, I am, and you're an idiot if you're not," Art shot back. "I won't be argued out of this one so don't even try."

"Fine," Tim snapped and marched out.

"Keep your phone on," Art called after him.

Tim stopped just outside the exit and stood hidden in the shade by the parking lot. He looked at his truck then started a systematic search of the buildings facing the lot. He waited there for a while, watching for any movement. It was unlikely that Garza would chance setting up near the office again, but Tim wasn't going to be complacent. If you get lazy, you get dead. Satisfied that he'd at least reduced the risk, Tim jogged to his truck and got in. He crossed his fingers and turned the key in the ignition. It started and he pulled out onto the street, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

He drove to the university and sat in his truck trying to figure out how his conversation with Miljana was going to go. He didn't want to leave her alone in Lexington, in case Garza somehow found out about her, but taking her along didn't seem like a particularly good idea. Either way, he couldn't control the situation and it bothered him.

He had never picked her up at the campus before and stopped some students to ask for directions to the psychology department. One look at the holster and badge and they became very serious and helpful. It was comical. He was just looking for his girlfriend.

The students escorted him to the appropriate building and Tim took the steps two at a time up to the second floor. He walked the hallway checking room numbers and spotted her in an office halfway down. She was seated at a table with her back to the door talking to a colleague, a man probably in his thirties, sitting possessively close to her. Tim crossed his arms, leaned against the door frame and waited for them to notice him.

Tim was not a big man, but like all law enforcement officers he wore intimidation as part of his arsenal. It was often the only weapon he needed. Her colleague looked up and froze when he saw the Marshal's expression. Miljana turned around to see what had startled him and grinned. She got up and walked over, rolling her eyes at the look on his face, the she uncrossed his arms and reached up to give him a kiss.

"Hi," she said. "What are you doing here?"

He let his eyes linger a moment longer on the fellow at the table then shifted them to Miljana and smiled.

"Sorry to interrupt. It's important."

"It's a nice surprise," she said. "This is Dr. Hanson."

He jumped up before she could complete the introduction and ran over to shake Tim's hand.

"Call me Steve," he said nervously. "She was just explaining her research."

"Deputy Gutterson," he responded dropping the smile he had put on for Miljana.

She gave him a look.

"Tim," he added as a concession to her and accepted the handshake.

Steve mumbled an excuse and promptly left.

"What was that all about?" she asked him, annoyance edging her voice.

"I was just messing with him."

"Why would you do that?"

"It's fun." He shrugged and pulled her in for a proper kiss. She put a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Tell me you're not jealous."

"Never jealous. That's a waste of emotion," he responded. His tone was flat but his eyes glinted with mischief. "There's nothing that would change your mind if you liked Dr. Steve better than me."

"Careful, your insecurities are showing."

"So were his, he just didn't know enough to take advantage of mine."

"_You_ were mean."

"_He_ was sitting too close to you."

She gave him a searching look, trying to figure out if he was joking, and if he was, which part of it was the joke. She gave up and shook her head.

"Do you want to get lunch?" she asked him.

"I need to talk to you," he replied, serious now. "We can do it over lunch."

She grabbed her purse and locked the office door.

"I might switch my research and look into the use of body language as a weapon of mass destruction," she said as they walked down the hall. "You leveled him!"

"It's just posturing," Tim drawled and cocked his head to the side. "It's a good part of any battle. Dr. Steve was a classic submissive. He rolled right over and bared his belly."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Have you been reading my books?"

* * *

Tim grew up in an old Kentucky house on the edge of the Daniel Boone National Forest in Wolfe County. The lane way was in the mountains at the end of a bad road and rarely did anyone arrive there by accident. He had paid out the back taxes and the mortgage after his father's funeral and kept it, and came up when he needed some 'lone time', as he called it. Lately his 'lone time' included Miljana and that worked for him.

She had once spent an entire afternoon on the porch discussing whether this need was in his nature from birth or whether it was nurtured by his time growing up in this isolated patch of Kentucky. He didn't really care except that it amused her to talk about it.

This weekend Tim had driven up by himself. After a long discussion and a bit of an argument about what exactly it meant to be hunted, he convinced her that she made him vulnerable and she had agreed to being dropped at her parents' place.

"What if he guns you down when we leave the restaurant?" she asked him.

"He's a professional. It's not going to be 'gun fight at the OK Corral'," he replied patiently. "He'll take his time and set it up. He gave up the advantage of surprise when he announced his intentions to us at the office. We've got his picture plastered in every police station from here to El Paso. So now he has to be careful."

She didn't look convinced.

"Milja, the guy's Special Forces. He'll plan. I _know_. And I want the home field advantage."

He didn't add that there were just too many windows in Lexington. He didn't want her any more worried than she already was.

* * *

"I need information on the Marshal," Torrent said into the phone. The attack on the office had yielded nothing and he was frustrated. It should have been easy. It should have been done.

"I don't have much," his contact replied. "It's not like the DEA has him on a watch list like Mosely with a fat file."

"What do you have?"

"I can give you his service record and his personal information – address, phone number – and I can tell you if he's paid his taxes, but that's about it."

The contact was purposely vague about the service record. Torrent was becoming a problem. He was out of control, on a vengeance mission, and the DEA agent was getting concerned that he was going to get blown because of it. He was aware of Gutterson's military training and hoped the Deputy might be able to get rid of Torrent so he wouldn't have to.

"Give me his address," Torrent snapped.

The DEA agent smiled. "I've got two."

By the end of the weekend, either the Marshal or the _sicario_ was going to finish this and he really didn't care who.

* * *

xxxxxx


	13. Chapter 13

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Thirteen**

Tim drove carefully up the pot-holed lane to the old house, unpacked his supplies and settled in to wait. Weaver said that he could slip the information to the DEA office that Tim was hiding out at his address in Wolfe County. With luck the leak would take care of the rest. He figured it was just a matter of time before Victor Garza came to check it out.

Tim purposely kept to a routine. He went running every morning, followed by breakfast and coffee, then either sat on the porch and read or went inside to clean, check and recheck his weapons. Every second day he drove into Campton to get fresh food, and to find a cell signal to call Art.

He and Weaver would switch out during the run. They had set up a hide just off the running path with an excellent view of the property and the surrounding hills and would take 24-hour shifts manning the rifle. Tim Weaver had shaved off his beard and with a baseball cap to cover his hair the two of them were similar enough to get away with the ruse from a distance. Being able to sleep, shower and eat a hot meal every other day was a luxury when sitting on a target that both men appreciated.

Tim was pulling back in from a trip to town when Victor Garza finally appeared. He had a weapon on Tim the second he opened the door to his truck. He was good. Tim had to give him that. He had found the one route up to the house that was a blind spot, a creek bed cut into the rock. And he was lucky. He'd managed to catch Tim with the truck between him and his buddy on the rifle.

Although he had prepared for this moment and had been expecting it, Tim was still surprised to be face to face with the man. His immediate reaction was to smile at him like an old friend.

"Shit," Tim said. "Better just get it done quickly."

"_Hijo de puta!_ I promise you this will not be quick," Garza threatened and spat on the ground.

The _sicario_'s reaction was exactly what Tim had expected from the descriptions Weaver had given him. The cartels were known for their _venganza_, terrible acts of vengeance involving torture, decapitation, hanging. Weaver had said that Garza would not be able to resist a slow death for Tim given the place's isolation. This knowledge was supposed to make Tim feel better.

"Your gun," Garza demanded, motioning for Tim to throw it to him.

Tim carefully pulled his revolver from his back holster and tossed it over. The assassin caught it easily.

"Move," Garza ordered, motioning Tim around to the house.

As soon as they cleared the truck, there was a clicking sound from the forest, like someone calling a dog. In the split second that Garza was distracted by the noise Tim dropped. He heard a muffled shot and the assassin was jerked backward off his feet by the impact of the bullet.

Tim pulled himself up out of the dirt and stepped over to where Garza was laying, kicking the weapon out of reach. He picked up his revolver and pointed it at the man's chest. Garza looked at Tim then worked his mouth and spit blood at him before he stopped breathing. That disturbed Tim more than the shooting at the office. It was personal. He cautiously reached down to check for a pulse.

There was a rustling noise behind him and his buddy, in a full ghillie suit, jogged over to stand beside him, leaves and twigs sticking out everywhere, his fall camouflage.

"Dude, that chili last night? Delicious. Just the right amount of chipotle. Kind of put me in the mood for a showdown with a Mexican hitman."

Tim looked over at his buddy and didn't say anything.

"Don't tell me this bothers you," Weaver said, exasperated with his friend. "Do you know what this guy would've done to you? He would have used your chain saw over there and enjoyed the screaming."

"I know."

"Then get over it."

"God, I wonder what she'd make of this," Tim said, shaking his head.

"Of what?"

"Of me, standing next to the body of a morally-skewed assassin and talking to an equally morally-skewed bush."

Tim Weaver laughed then gestured at Garza. "He's dead, right?"

"Yep."

"I'm going to take a shower," his buddy announced and headed to the house.

"Don't be long. I've got to call this in," Tim sighed.

Weaver stopped and turned around. "We can always deal with him another way," he offered.

"No, I need to do this by the book."

"Well then, buddy, here's your new rifle." He handed his weapon to Tim.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with it?" Tim asked, taking it.

"Look, if you want to report this, then you have to be the guy who did the shooting 'cause I was never here. I figured you'd want it do it all official-like so I got the receipts for the rifle in your name."

Tim stared at him, thinking it through. "Uh, there's no way that's going to work. If I buy a new rifle," he explained slowly, "then admit to shooting this guy the same week, well that looks pre-meditated to any judge and I'm in trouble."

"You bought it for self-defense," Weaver shrugged.

"A sniper rifle?" Tim exclaimed. "No one's going to believe it was for self-defense."

"Dude, I'm messing with you," said Weaver, rolling his eyes. "Geez, you must think I'm pretty dumb. The receipt has you purchasing it a couple of years ago. Now relax, buddy. This is what I do. Go get your girlfriend. I want to meet her."

"She's in Lexington."

"No, she's coming up the hill," said Weaver, waving his arm down the road.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Nope. Saw her in the scope. Dark hair, pretty. Drives a red Ford. She wisely parked it at the first turn. This road's shit. She's walking up."

Tim stared at him, mouth gaping.

"Go on," Weaver shooed him and marched up the steps to the house, stripping out of his ghillie suit and boots on the porch.

"Shit!" Tim exclaimed and ran down the lane stop her.

* * *

"Tim!"

Miljana ran forward and launched herself at him, almost knocking him over. She clung on to him with her legs and arms and started crying. Tim was having a hard time holding her with a rifle in one hand and his revolver in the other.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he yelled angrily. He would have stomped his foot if he could. "I thought we agreed you were staying at home!"

"It's been almost a week and I was worried," she sobbed.

"Jesus, I told you to stay in Lexington," he said more gently. He couldn't be angry. He was too relieved she hadn't driven up an hour earlier. Her timing was terrible, but it could have been tragic.

She slid down off her perch. "Are you okay?" she asked, running her hands over his arms and chest to reassure herself.

"I'm fine. Really. I'm fine. See?"

"Why do you have a gun?"

"Sweetheart, this is a rifle."

"You have a gun and a rifle," she noted, pointing out each one.

"Uh-huh. I guess you're the girl with the PhD." He tucked the revolver back in its holster and put his free arm around her, turning her back to the car.

She stopped and dug in her heels. "Where are we going?"

"You're going home."

"I just got here," she exclaimed, perplexed.

"I can't take you up to the house," Tim said firmly, shaking his head.

"Why not?"

He didn't answer her, but there it was again, that look on his face that she dreaded. He just cocked his head to one side and blew out a breath.

"He came here and you killed him," she stated.

"Technically, I didn't kill him," Tim said weakly, screwing up his face.

"Who did?"

"Sue."

Miljana simultaneously looked confused and worried.

"Aw, hell," Tim mumbled, looking completely dejected. "You'd better come meet him."

"Him?"

* * *

Tim walked Miljana up to the house, making sure to do a wide arc around the body. She couldn't help but stare. When they got to the porch, Tim Weaver bounded out the screen door, hair still dripping, grabbed her in a bear hug and swung her around.

"Miljana, Miljana," he laughed. "Your timing is epic. I was just pouring."

"I'll take one," she responded breathlessly when he set her down.

"You don't even know what I'm pouring."

"It really doesn't matter," she said and followed him into the house.

Tim Weaver finished explaining his part in the events about the same time that she finished her second bourbon. She nodded numbly and asked for a third. He smiled and obliged her.

"So, now you have to kill me," she concluded, only half-kidding. She wouldn't have been surprised if he'd said yes, pulled out a gun and shot her.

"Well, normally, yeah. But I value my life," he said. "Tim, here, would hunt me down like a dog."

Before she could start on her third bourbon, Tim snatched the glass and raised an eyebrow at her.

"Since when did you start drinking so much?" He downed it himself in one go and motioned for Weaver to put the bottle away.

"Hey," she cried.

"I need you sober when we talk to the police. Now I really have to call Art and the Sheriff. And you," he said, pointing at his buddy, "need to bug out of here."

"Are you sure you don't want to come work with me?" Weaver asked grinning at Tim. "Tell me that wasn't fun."

"That wasn't fun," Tim replied seriously. "Are you sure you don't want to quit and get a real life?"

"Buddy, this is real life."

Miljana and Tim Weaver walked down the lane to her car. She had agreed to drop him off where he'd hidden his truck and then drive on into Campton to contact the local authorities and call Art.

Tim watched them go, concerned about what they'd discuss alone together. He would have preferred to go with her, but someone had to stay with the body.

He suggested that she wait in town and ask whoever came out from the Marshals office to pick her up when they came through. It was an hour from Lexington to Campton and he wanted some time alone to soften up the locals before she had to talk to them.

After they left, Tim jogged up to the hide and broke it down, blending the makeshift cover back into the forest. He then did a walk around his house, wiping down anything that Tim Weaver might have used, including the rifle. Finally he washed up the bourbon glasses and put them away. Satisfied, he sat down on the porch and made up a more exciting version of events to tell everyone to distract them from the truth. He thought back to Art's comment about 'secrets and sly looks' and felt uncomfortable about how much farther he would have to go along that path.

He watched the Sheriff's car coming cautiously up the lane and he stood up to meet them.

* * *

**Author's note**: Spanish refresher. _sicario_ - cartel name for an assassin; _hijo de puta_ - just about the worst thing you can call someone in Mexico (never insult their mothers or mine either, for that matter); _venganza_ - revenge.


	14. Chapter 14

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Fourteen**

Art and Rachel pulled up mid-afternoon with Miljana in the back seat. Art had questioned her on the way from town and she had followed Tim's instructions to the letter. She truthfully told them that she had driven up before lunch, worried that she hadn't heard anything from him, and he had met her in the laneway, turned her around and asked her to go back to town and make the phone calls. Leaving out the hour's worth of drinking in between wasn't a difficult lie to keep up.

They passed the coroner looking after Garza and walked into the house. Tim was sitting at the table in the kitchen with the Sheriff drinking coffee. Art greeted the Sheriff familiarly, having met him on a couple of occasions over a dead body.

"It's not often we get to deal with Mexican cartel stuff up here," the Sheriff chuckled. "It's mostly just hunting accidents and drunk drivers and the odd lost climber."

Art had smelled the bourbon on Miljana's breath when they picked her up in Campton and thought the Sheriff was probably missing half the drunk drivers. He did a quick look around the kitchen for a bottle.

"We've taken a statement from your Deputy," the Sheriff continued. "It all seems pretty straight forward. Though he suggested that the FBI or the DEA are going to want to be involved in this." The Sheriff's voice rose a bit, turning the last statement into a question for the Chief Deputy Marshal. It was clear he didn't want to have to deal with anything higher up the law enforcement scale than Art.

"I've already talked to the FBI agent in charge," Art assured him. "This is part of an ongoing investigation between them and the DEA that we just happened to get embroiled in."

The Sheriff nodded happily, relieved to be free of the task. He turned to Miljana and asked, "Are you the young lady that called?"

She nodded an affirmative.

"I guess we need to talk to you, then," he smiled. "It's just a formality, really."

The Sheriff motioned for her to follow him outside to give a statement to one of his deputies. Art took one look at her face and asked Rachel to go, too. Miljana gave him a grateful smile and stayed close to Rachel on the way out.

A thick silence settled when the screen door closed and Art and Tim were left alone in the house. Art sat down at the table across from him and leaned forward on it with his arms folded and stared.

Tim tipped his chair back on two legs, unconsciously putting what distance he could between himself and his boss. He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, licked his lips and glanced over at the rifle leaning against the kitchen wall. Art followed his eyes and gave the weapon an appraising look. It was a Remington 700; the same model rifle Art had purchased for Tim when he found out about his sniper skills; the same model Tim used with the SOG team.

"Nice hunting rifle," he said, his voice loaded with innuendo.

Tim didn't respond. He dropped his eyes to the floor and cursed himself for giving so much away in the first minute. Art made him doubt everything.

"Well, from the smell on her I reckon you've already been serving bourbon in this kitchen today, so why don't you just go on and get me one, too," Art suggested, his tone predatory.

Tim looked straight back at him, knowing from that one statement that Art was already well past suspicious. Tim rubbed his hands nervously on his pants, stood up and got a glass and the bottle and poured one, sliding it across the table. Art didn't waste much time drinking it or getting to the point.

"You know that I know that you had to have known Garza would find out about this house and come looking for you," Art stated. "But please, tell me that she wasn't here with you while you were waiting for him to show up so you could shoot him."

"She's been staying with her parents."

"Well, I guess you're not a complete idiot," Art snapped. "So, she definitely wasn't here when…"

"No, she arrived right after. I told her to stay in Lexington but..." He shrugged helplessly.

Art looked hard at Tim then nodded. "Okay," he said. "And what about that rifle? I didn't know you kept one for your very own. The two with your name on them at work not enough? Do you sleep with it?"

"Uh, I've had it for a couple of years. I, uh…" Tim's voice trailed off as he realized that he just couldn't lie to Art. He sighed, defeated and looked down at his hands.

"Tim, this smacks of vigilantism."

When Tim raised his head again and spoke, he was pleading. "Chief, I had to do something."

Art considered Tim's words for a minute, looking thoughtfully across at his deputy.

"Well, I can't say I blame you," he agreed, satisfied at seeing some truth in Tim's expression. He sat back and rubbed his head. "And I admit it's nice to get the sonofabitch that shot up our office. But dammit, Tim, tell me you didn't take this nutcase on by yourself? That worries me. Jesus, you could've ended up in bits in a bag somewhere. I realize that it's a new thing for you to consider, but there are folk who would be upset if that'd happened."

"I had help."

"Another friend?" Art jabbed.

Tim frowned, obviously fighting with himself about what to say.

"Oh, never mind," Art muttered, letting him off for now. "Next time, go to Miami if you want to pull this kind of shit!"

Tim got up and pulled another glass from the cupboard and poured two more drinks. They sat in silence, wrapped in their own thoughts.

"Well, I doubt anyone's going to look very hard into this," Art finally said. "I think you're okay. But I want the whole story when this is done, and not the one you're giving to the locals. And, I want to have a sit down with Miljana and she and I are going to discuss _you_. And don't give me any doctor-patient confidentiality bullshit."

Tim just nodded, relieved he wasn't fired, yet.

They were ready to head back to Lexington within the hour. The Sheriff felt the situation didn't need much more attention than that. He even pushed the idea that Art take the rifle with him so the Feds could continue the investigation without coming to Campton.

Tim asked Rachel if she'd drive Miljana's car back to Lexington. After Art's comments about drinking, he thought it would be best. Besides, she was looking a little shell-shocked.

She was quiet in the truck for the first half hour and he became concerned.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked her. "I mean, I owe you at least two or three hundred sessions."

She smiled. "I've lost a lot of money dating you. You're a psychologist's cash cow."

"We could probably get it paid for through work."

"Now you tell me." She reached over and ran her hand through his hair to soften the words.

* * *

Thanks to the Herculean efforts of the contractors, the Marshals had been able to move back upstairs within two weeks. Art was just waiting on delivery of the new glass doors for the conference room and the space would be fully functional again. With Garza no longer a threat, the atmosphere among the Deputies was light and relaxed, with one exception.

"It's after lunch. We could slip across the street for a drink if it'd help," Raylan offered. He'd been watching Tim fidget in his chair for almost an hour and it was pity that made him suggest a trip to the bar.

Tim was trying to concentrate on finishing a report but having his girlfriend in the office talking to his boss was clearly destroying the usual calm that defined his character at work. His eyes kept wandering over watching their expressions and body language through the glass. Raylan was sympathetic.

"How much longer do you think they'll be?" Tim asked him, looking dejected.

"I dunno. How much do they have to talk about?" Raylan replied.

The look on Tim's face suggested that they could potentially be at it for a few more days.

* * *

Miljana sat comfortably through the pause, waiting for Art to ask another question. When nothing was forthcoming, she ventured a comment.

"I've been white-washing with psychology now for over half an hour. But you have to tell me, Art, what is it you're looking for? What did you want to get out of this?"

"I thought we were here to talk about Tim, not me," Art responded, beginning to get the feeling that he wasn't in control of this meeting.

"Tim is just the subject, not the object, of this discussion," she stated. "I suspect the real object of this discussion is to reassure you. If you would confirm or deny this for me, it would be helpful."

She waited patiently for Art to puzzle this out.

"Reassure me of what, exactly?"

She was hoping that Art would tell her. She was being put in an untenable position and had to maneuver carefully not to betray Tim's trust.

"Reassure you that, as your employee, he is not a danger to himself or anyone else."

"I can't have a loose cannon in my office," Art said decisively.

"A loose cannon?"

"Does he know when to stop?" Art decided to lay it out bluntly for her. "He's been involved in a number of shooting deaths, all of them in the line of duty," he added carefully, "and nothing seems to bother him. And now this last one, while I understand it, worries me. Does he have any feelings about these shootings at all? Any regrets?"

"His _regrets_ wake him up most nights," she replied flatly. "If he appears numb to the events here, it's because he's still rationalizing everything that happened to him in Afghanistan. Has he talked to you much about that?"

"He did tell us one story, about shooting a Taliban sniper with a handgun from about a half a yard," Art replied. "He _laughed_ about it."

"Yes, I remember that story – his longest shot. Did he tell you he threw up immediately afterward?" she asked calmly.

"No."

"No. Did he tell you that he was so upset his spotter had to set up and man the rifle for the first hour?"

Art's face fell. "No."

"Did he tell you that they had to stay in that position for a day and a half, watching the road, with the body beside them the whole time? Did he mention that he was angry at himself for vomiting because they were already dehydrated and they had only carried the minimum amount of water with them and he had to use more than his share?"

"No," Art replied, wishing he'd thought to put on his bullet-proof vest.

"Did he tell you that he can still describe in detail that man's face?"

Art shook his head.

"Art, I could not be in love with a man who had no remorse about killing."

* * *

When they finally stood up and shook hands and made their way out of Art's office, Tim tried to look occupied, like he hadn't been riveted by the exchange. She walked over to his desk and he stood up to see her out.

"What did you talk about?" he asked, not sure he really cared to know.

"You."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him you were a certifiable psychopath but that you were great in bed."

Tim blinked. "Did he believe any part of it?"

"Only the last bit. He seemed to need some reason to understand why I was dating you." She kissed him and stepped onto the elevator, waving and grinning mischievously as the doors closed.

He grinned back.

Art held the door for him when he returned.

"I feel like I just did ten rounds with the world heavy-weight champion," he said with a bemused expression. "She's way too smart. Why is she with you?"

Tim tilted his head and looked at his boss. "She likes the guns," he replied.

"Uh," Art grunted and frowned, not sure how to take that.

* * *

xxxxxx


	15. Chapter 15

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Fifteen**

Rachel hung up the phone, a particular smile on her lips. Tim scooted his chair backwards around his desk, past Raylan's, who looked up amused, and over to hers, crashing into it. He leaned both elbows on a file sitting on the side next to her keyboard, dropped his head into his hands and looked into her eyes.

"How's Darling?" he sighed.

She pulled the file out from under him and hit him with it.

"He says hi," she answered coyly. "I suppose your fanboy, Pete, has already given you the news?"

He nodded and sat back in his chair. "What did Darling say?"

"Ortiz is strutting like a peacock," she replied. "Mosely has given them everything they wanted and more for immunity and a spot in WITSEC. The hearing is next week."

"So there it is."

"So there it is."

Raylan leaned over. "Don't mean to be a wet blanket but to quote the great Yogi Berra, 'it ain't over 'til it's over'." He raised his eyebrows at them, indicating they should heed the wisdom of his experience. "Guess you'll be getting a call from Louisiana before the end of the day," he said to Tim as he turned back to his work.

"You really are a wet blanket," Tim responded, knowing that Raylan was right. His SOG team was the 'on call' team for this three-week period. They would almost certainly be requested for court security at a high stakes hearing like Mosely's.

"Teach Rachel how to shoot a rifle," suggested Raylan. "I'm sure Darling would rather have her watching his ass than you."

"Oh, I'll be watching his ass," Rachel smiled at them, completely unruffled by their teasing. "And from a lot closer than the roof of some building."

Raylan and Tim exchanged an exaggerated look of shock.

Tim got the anticipated call within the hour. He was to report to Camp Beauregard, Louisiana the following morning, Saturday, for a briefing and drills and then fly to Houston on Sunday to scout out the area in preparation for the dawn set up before the hearing at the Federal Courthouse on Monday.

"You must be excited," Raylan exclaimed, mocking him.

"I'm over-the-top underwhelmed," Tim moped.

He shrugged at Rachel. They would have to put off dinner at her mom's again. And he called Miljana to tell her the weekend was shot and to postpone dinner at her parents' place as well.

"When did your social life get so busy?" Raylan asked Tim after he'd hung up. "No, let me rephrase that. When did you get a social life, period?"

"It's not mine. It's like some black hole. I just got too close and got caught up in the gravitational well." He made a hand motion in a downward spiral and gave Raylan a wide-eyed look of fear. "Not even light can escape its pull. What chance do I have?"

Tim joked about it, but he truthfully would rather have dinner with Miljana's parents than fly off to Camp Beauregard. He was starting to like her dad.

And though he got along fine with his SOG teammates, he would never have that easy camaraderie with them that he enjoyed with the Marshals here in Lexington and nothing would ever come close to that bond he still had with his military buddies.

He stepped into Art's office to give him the heads up.

"Houston? Again?" Art shook his head. "This case is like an STD. It just keeps coming back."

Tim grinned and turned to leave.

"Make sure you wear protection," Art called after him.

* * *

Tim leaned up against the wall in the hospital. He was still in his full tactical gear, holding his rifle, his face smeared with grime from the smoke. He was hot and exhausted and getting more frustrated by the minute. He needed to find Rachel.

The staff at the hospital had been waving off his inquiries, telling him to wait, with at least four dead and dozens injured they were run off their feet and dealing with their own frustrations.

Raylan's words had proved prophetic. _It ain't over 'til it's over_, he'd said. Tim decided he was going to punch him for being right when he got back to Lexington.

From his position on the roof kitty-corner, Tim had a clear view of the front of the courthouse. His SOG team had set up at 6am and he had been in position for almost seven hours. It was hot in the midday sun and he had gone through most of the water he had carried up with him. He saw movement at the courthouse doors and let out a sigh of relief when the security detail led Mosely outside. A quick debrief then a cold beer were now tantalizingly close.

Shouts and noise drew his attention down the block. Tim watched in disbelief as a dump truck crashed through the barriers set up at the corner. Orders were communicated to stop it. The security on the street shot at the tires and Tim fired into the cab at the driver. But it didn't make any difference, it was a suicide run from the start. The truck careened down the street and slammed into two police cruisers parked by the curb in front. It must have been packed with explosive because a blast wave shattered every window facing the street and rocked Tim backwards off his feet.

He scrambled back up and looked down into mayhem. His rifle was useless now. Thick smoke billowed from the wreckage, blocking his view. He sprinted across the roof and down the stairs and waded into the chaos. He helped pull people away from the burning truck until the fire became too hot and the soles of his boots began to melt and stick to the concrete.

Fire trucks and ambulances started to arrive and added to the confusion. Tim searched for Rachel, having seen her and Darling near the courthouse doors before the explosion. Instead, he found Pete in a daze, trying to stand on an obviously broken leg. He calmed him down and stayed with him until paramedics came and loaded him on a stretcher.

An EMS bus pulled up and began loading the remainder of the injured. A few people were left standing, watching the firemen battle the flames. Tim wandered among them, his concern growing. When he still couldn't find Rachel, he climbed on the bus and rode to the hospital.

He'd now been waiting over an hour. He pushed off the wall and started wandering through emergency, looking into doorways and behind curtains. He paused in an open area being used as a triage space and started moving among the patients and staff hoping to see a familiar face. A nurse finally stopped him and sat him down in a chair. She gave him a glass of juice and treated the burns on his hands that he hadn't realized were there. When she moved away he finally caught sight of Rachel sitting across the room with her head propped against the wall behind her, looking equally dirty and tired. She saw him and smiled and he grinned back, enormously relieved.

He pulled his chair over beside her and sat down again.

"Okay?" he asked.

"Okay."

Her phone rang and she answered it. It was Art. He'd just gotten word about the attack and had been informed that a Marshal was killed. Rachel assured him that they were fine.

The SOG leader came through the hospital and started shepherding his team together. Tim followed him out for their debriefing at the mobile command center, shed his gear and headed back to the motel.

Twenty minutes and an entire bar of soap later, he stepped out of the shower, clean, threw on some jeans and ran out to a store for some cold beer. He knew the guys from SOG were gathering in one of the rooms, holding their own vigil for the dead, but he needed to find out about his friends at the FBI first. He knocked on Rachel's door and she let him in. She happily accepted a sweating bottle of beer and they sat on the bed rehashing the disastrous day.

Darling had called her. He was fine and so were Pete and Anita. Mosely was dead, and so was the driver of the truck, a DEA agent and a Houston Marshal. Ortiz was livid, blaming everyone. Everyone else was wondering who had leaked the time and date of the hearing and was pointing fingers back at the DEA. Tim doubted they would ever figure out who was betraying their secrets to the cartel.

Rachel had a few cuts and bruises and a mild concussion.

"You want me to sleep on the floor here tonight, keep an eye on you?" he asked, looking concerned.

She smiled, "I've had a better offer."

"I'm crushed," Tim replied, not at all offended.

Rachel was giving Tim the details of the hearing when she noticed the room was very quiet. She looked over to find him asleep, stretched out on her bed. After four beers and no lunch, it wasn't surprising. She propped up a couple of pillows and settled beside him to read and eventually nodded off, too.

Darling walked in an hour later and woke them both up with an offering of Chinese take-out and more cold beer. Tim kept them company until the food was gone then left to raise a bottle with his SOG team.

* * *

xxxxxxxx


	16. Chapter 16

**Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Sixteen**

Tim and Rachel trudged back into the Lexington office just before quitting time the next day. Art met them halfway across the room and ushered them back out and over to Molly's. They hadn't ordered yet when Raylan walked in and joined them.

"Got your text," he said to Art as he took a seat.

"Well I can see that," Art replied sarcastically. "I'm just wondering what took you so long. I expected you to be here waiting."

The waitress came over and put her hand on Art's shoulder. He smiled up at her.

"What'll it be today, Marshals? Beer or bourbon?"

"We'll start with bourbon," Art replied for them all.

"Okay. Not a good day?" she asked.

"Not a good day," Art said sadly.

She patted his shoulder and went to get their order.

When the bourbon arrived, Art raised his glass up and they made a quiet toast to the fallen Houston Marshal.

"Did you know him?" Tim asked Art.

"I worked with him twice. Once at Glynco, before you were there," Art explained nodding at Raylan. "And once when I was in Houston before I took over the bureau here in Lexington. He was a bit younger than me."

"Art, everyone's a bit younger than you," Raylan interjected.

"And not much older than you," Art jabbed. "It'll be hard on his wife. She's a lovely lady."

"What exactly happened?" Raylan asked, turning to Rachel and Tim.

"It was the old exploding dump truck trick, Raylan," Art answered for them. "It happens all the time. I'm amazed you haven't seen it before."

"Funny, Art," Raylan responded.

"Not funny if you were there," Rachel said seriously. "I'm surprised more people weren't killed."

"You two are like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse," Art decided, pointing at Rachel and Tim.

"Minus two," Tim counted for him.

"I wasn't being literal."

"Uh-uh," denied Rachel. "Not me. It's all Tim. I wasn't in Wolfe County for the shooting or in Lexington when they got the first guy or in the office when it got shot up."

Tim looked hurt. "Hey, I wasn't in Clay County when that went down."

"How do we know for sure?" Art asked, looking at Tim suspiciously.

The waitress came back and they ordered another round.

"Well, I got to say, this is the nastiest case I've ever been around," Art concluded. "I'm thinking we should move the office down to Harlan where it's safe."

"Before you do that, can I get a transfer?" asked Tim.

"Get in line," Raylan snarled. "I've got seniority."

"I just hope they catch the guy responsible for leaking information out of the DEA office," Rachel said. "Really, whoever it is deserves some serious justice. I'd play a Horseman of the Apocalypse to see him brought down."

Tim nodded in agreement. "I'd play the fourth," he said seriously, holding up a hand and waving four fingers. "_Its rider was named Death…"_

"…_and Hades was following close behind him,"_ Raylan finished the recitation. "The pale horseman."

Raylan and Tim clinked glasses in appreciation.

Rachel looked at the two of them in amazement. "Don't tell me you two went to Sunday school? It's scaring me that you're quoting _Revelation_. My universe has been turned upside-down."

"Lovely Sarah-Jane White," Raylan reminisced, smiling. "She sat in front of me. The Four Horsemen is the only part I recall."

"Because it was cool," Tim grinned. He took another drink. "Hell, if I didn't show up at Sunday school, my dad would take it out of me later. Good God-fearing Christian that he was."

* * *

The next morning the mail clerk dropped a padded envelope on Tim's desk. He reached for it, opening it while he checked his email. There was a disposable cell phone inside. He looked at it blankly for a moment then frowned. He turned it on and set it on his desk. Later that morning it rang.

"Hey buddy, how's it going?" Tim Weaver said cheerfully on the other end.

"Bit melodramatic, the secret cell phone delivery," Tim said dryly.

"Thought it would amuse," Weaver laughed.

"What's up?" Tim asked, looking around the office to see if anyone was watching him. He caught Raylan's eye.

"I need to fix a plumbing problem that requires some special skills. I've found a leak, actually _the leak_. How about it, _guey_? I'll buy you a _cerveza _when we're done."

Tim let out a breath. "I'm not sure that's a good idea," he replied chewing his lip.

"It's a great idea, buddy. Trust me," his friend replied. "Meet me outside in ten minutes. You owe me."

He ended the call before Tim could answer. Tim sat staring at the display then methodically took the phone apart and crushed the memory chip, throwing the pieces in the trash. Raylan was still watching. Tim ignored him, grabbed his jacket and headed for the elevator.

Raylan followed him into the hall and stepped onto the elevator with him. When the doors closed and they started moving down, Raylan reached over and pressed the emergency stop button. He looked at Tim and raised his eyebrows in a question.

"Raylan," Tim stated, "I gotta go."

"You gotta go?" Raylan responded, mimicking a conversation they'd had not that long ago. "Where do you gotta go? And before you answer…"

Tim's face broke into a wide grin and he looked down at his feet.

"Tim, don't cross any lines that I wouldn't cross," warned Raylan.

"I'm not sure how to take that," Tim joked. "I mean, what lines haven't you crossed?"

"International lines."

"What about Nicaragua?"

"I was there on official Marshal business," Raylan stated looking hard at him.

Tim tilted his head and stared back.

"This isn't quite as official, but I trust the guy who's asking for my help. It's a position I seem to find myself in…often," he said pointedly.

Raylan felt old looking at Tim. It wasn't the age difference so much, it was the experience. He saw himself, and for a split second he felt deeply every questionable thing he'd ever done, and knew he would do it the same all over again. You can't change who you are.

"Just tell me one thing. You gonna get the guy?"

Tim smiled. "Fuck, yeah."

"Watch your language."

Raylan started the elevator and they rode to the lobby in silence.

* * *

Getting into Mexico wasn't hard when you had the kind of help that Tim Weaver could tap. By the following evening they were heading south toward Monterrey in an inconspicuous dusty pick-up. Tim insisted they find a remote spot to test the .50 cal they had hidden in the back. He was mechanical and meticulous about his shooting and wanted to zero-in the weapon himself. Weaver was annoyingly vague about its origins and could not guarantee that the rifle had been as lovingly maintained as Tim would like.

Weaver obliged him and they spent an afternoon shooting in the dry, mountainous region north and west of Monterrey. They had a cooler of beer and food and felt like they were at an NRA picnic, even trading off the handguns that Weaver had supplied for the trip and testing those as well.

"I haven't had this much fun since that day they let us open up with all that different ammo on the .50 cal range at Pendleton," Weaver grinned.

"That was fun," Tim agreed.

"This or that?"

"Both," Tim laughed.

"All we need now is a couple of girls and some more beer," said Weaver. "Oh no, wait. I forgot. You're married. Just one girl."

"I'm not married."

"Yet."

Tim only half-heartedly defended his single status. Maybe Rachel was right and he was old-fashioned. He just couldn't get his head around sleeping with another woman right now. He satisfied his ego by telling himself that he was smarter than the fools that complicated their lives with more than one girl at time.

Tim drove the next leg of the trip while Weaver dozed and found himself thinking about Miljana. His latest evening with her parents had been relaxing and amusing. Tim discovered on that visit that Miljana got her twisted bluntness and humor from her father. Stevan was as good as she was at digging information out of him about his past. Once he found out that Tim had spent hours tinkering with his dad's truck, trying to keep the junk heap working, he dragged him out to the garage to look at his ride 'em mower.

Two hours later, Stevan had settled his daughter on him in payment for repairs. Tim had repeated the conversation to Miljana when they were back home.

"_I had a nice chat with your dad."_

"_Oh?"_

"_He said if I could handle you, I could have you."_

"_Hmm," Miljana responded. "He's a loving and caring man. Very protective, too."_

"_I told him I couldn't handle you, but I was so lacking in pride that it didn't bother me."_

"_Great."_

"_He told me he'd leave the garage unlocked so I could get to the ladder."_

"_I live on the seventh floor."_

"_I think he was being metaphorical."_

Weaver stirred himself every so often, opening one eye and checking the map to give directions. They skirted east around Monterrey and then south toward Linares. Eventually they headed west, back into the Sierra Madre Oriental, an area that Weaver claimed was mostly still disputed territory. When they were close to their destination they pulled off into the brush on a lonely track and slept in the truck.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Mexican-Spanish translations:

_guey_, affectionately 'dude', unaffectionately 'dumb-ox' or worse; (This word needs an accent on the 'u' which I missed and is derived from _buay, _meaning ox. It's one of those wonderfully complicated colloquialisms that changes its meaning in context.)

_cerveza_, beer (and if you don't know that, you're not drinking enough)


	17. Chapter 17

_When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,_  
_And the women come out to cut up what remains,_  
_Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains_  
_An' go to your Gawd like a soldier._

_- The Young British Soldier, Barrack-Room Ballads_, by Rudyard Kipling, 1892

* * *

**Roll to Your Rifle - Chapter Seventeen**

They had been sitting on the dry dusty hill for over 36 hours, waiting for the shot. The DEA had a leak, but the cartel did, too. One DEA agent had gone AWOL shortly after Mosely was killed and Weaver's employers had traced him to a Zeta's hideout in the mountains southeast of Monterrey. Wanting to avoid a shootout on foreign soil, they'd opted for a long range hunt and Weaver had opted to stack his odds and call in a ringer.

Weaver was looking through his spotter's scope, following the trace to the target. The first shot had gone high and a bit wide and Tim had made corrections. At this distance, the group of _narcos_ couldn't hear the rifle report and since the round struck the dirt behind them, they didn't see anything either. The second shot hit its mark, knocking the rogue DEA agent forward off his feet in a red spray, the devastating impact of the .50 caliber round killing him instantly. His body landed in front of the _narcos_ he was meeting, sending them all scattering for cover.

"Dude, nice shot! Fuck. Dead center. You always were better than me," Weaver said shaking his head. "I just don't trust myself at these distances."

"Can't do it without a good spotter," Tim replied.

"That's true, but you know everyone always scored better when you were spotting for them, too."

"You called the adjustments on that shot," Tim pointed out.

"And you ignored them and went with your own," Weaver complained.

"Well, yours were wrong."

"I hate you."

Tim started breaking down the rifle.

"No, dude, leave it," said Weaver. "Just grab the firing pin. We're sending a message."

"You want to leave it for them?" Tim exclaimed horrified. "They can just replace the pin and then they have a perfectly good rifle. I recall distinctly what they were able to do with another one just like it."

"It was theirs to begin with," Weaver shrugged. "Besides, they can always get weapons. One rifle either way is not going to end the war on drugs."

It was well into the evening now and starting to get dark as the two men jogged down the back of the hill to the waiting truck. Weaver slapped Tim's shoulder as they threw their bags in the back.

"Tell me that wasn't fun," he said, getting in and starting the truck. They pulled out onto a dirt road and sped off, kicking up a cloud of dust.

"You keep saying that," Tim responded. "I don't think we have the same feelings on this. It was satisfying. But it's still work."

"Work? You call this work? This is a vacation," Weaver said with enthusiasm.

"Tell me again how you got through the psych screening in sniper school."

Weaver just laughed. He eased out onto a paved section of road and stepped harder on the accelerator. They had a long drive ahead of them. They were taking the back roads for now, heading west toward the Pacific. After a few miles, Weaver asked for the firing pin. He tossed it out the window into the empty Mexican desert.

"Sorry we couldn't confirm that one for you. 1800 yards, it was a beauty," Weaver commented admiringly on the shot.

"I can't understand why you wouldn't walk down there among the heavily armed _narcos_ and kick the body for me," Tim said sarcastically.

"You want to go back?" Weaver suggested slowing down.

"No!" Tim yelped. He wouldn't have put it past his friend to turn around and do just that. "Keep driving!"

Weaver chuckled and pointed to the cooler at Tim's feet. Tim pulled out two cold bottles of beer, opened one and passed it to his buddy; opened the other and took a long drink.

"How are we getting out?" he asked, trusting his friend to have a plan.

"I've got a nice boat waiting for us in a marina in Puerto Vallarta. Lovely town. Controlled by the Sinaloa cartel last I checked. They'd welcome us with open arms for messing with the Zetas."

"I hate boats."

* * *

Tim sat at the airport in San Diego a few days later, waiting for his flight to Louisville. He had spoken to Miljana briefly when he arrived back in the States. She seemed relieved to hear from him but they didn't talk much. He hadn't called Art yet. He hoped his job was still waiting for him. He hadn't had the time to explain to anyone but Raylan where he was headed or what he was doing, he wasn't sure what he would have said anyway.

When he reached Lexington, he drove straight to work to deal with his boss first. Art smiled at him when he walked in.

"How was your vacation?" he asked pleasantly.

And that was that.

He went to his house next and waited for Miljana, when she hadn't shown up by 7pm he drove to her apartment. She let him in but he knew by the look on her face that she wasn't going to make it easy.

He dropped his jacket on a chair and stood nervously just inside the door.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't call," he started. "I was…"

"I don't want to hear it," Miljana said angrily. "Is it going to keep you up at night?" She turned her head because she couldn't look at him.

"Not this one. I'll sleep like a baby, especially if you're around," he replied.

She rubbed her face with her hands and groaned. "What did you do?"

"My job."

"If it was your job, then Art would have known where you were. I hate this. If you're going to continue destroying yourself, I don't want any part of it. Get out!"

She had turned away from him and he stood staring at her back, unsure what to do. Finally, he picked up his jacket and left.

She paced around her apartment growling. She had been accused before of always seeing things as rosy, but she realized lately that her view of the world was actually in varying shades of grey. It was probably what made her a natural at psychology. Nothing was black or white; nothing was good or evil. There was no judgment.

And she knew you didn't stay with someone because you loved their good traits; hell, you could love anyone's good traits. You stayed with them because you could live with the bad.

She screamed her frustration at the empty apartment, threw on a sweater and went to look for him.

* * *

Tim was trying to sort out his feelings and failing miserably. He told himself he was insane to have hoped it would ever last. He headed away from her, unable to think, jamming his hands in his pockets to stop them shaking. He had been walking for twenty minutes before he remembered his truck parked back at the apartment. He stopped and looked around, getting his bearings. How did he get here?

He decided he needed a drink, something calming. It crossed his mind to go visit Raylan at his bar for some relationship advice in the form of a bottle, but he opted instead for some solitude and a crappy establishment close enough to home that he could walk it later. He plunked himself at the bar and ordered a beer with a bourbon chaser, settling in to break a promise he'd made a year ago, that he'd never again go drinking alone.

The bartender saw what was going on the minute Tim sat down and purposely took longer and longer getting to him between rounds. After a few hours, he decided to put a stop to it.

"Son, I think you've about had enough," he said. It was cliché but that didn't make it untrue.

"I guess," Tim replied.

"Tell me you're not driving."

"I'm not driving," Tim slurred.

The bartender nodded and turned away.

Tim staggered outside and down the quiet street. He stumbled on the uneven pavement and careened into a wall. He leaned against it to get his balance for a moment then slid down until he was sitting. He decided the pavement wasn't a bad place to rest, closed his eyes and passed out.

Raylan found him. He and Art went out looking for him after Miljana called, upset and worried. Raylan knew the bars in the area well enough and drove past them all. He stopped when he spotted an LPD cruiser parked at the curb. Two officers were standing on the sidewalk with their hands cautiously on their holstered sidearms, their attention focused on a figure slumped against a building. Raylan got out of his car and showed them his star. The look of relief on their faces at seeing it confirmed his suspicions. They were trying to decide how to deal with a very drunk Deputy Marshal who was holding a loaded Beretta in his lap.

"Gentlemen," Raylan greeted them, tiredly. "You want me to handle this." He nodded at Tim.

"If you wouldn't mind," one said. "You know him?"

"About as well as anybody, I suppose. Is he under arrest for something?" Raylan queried with a lop-sided grin.

"I presume he has a license for that," the officer said, indicating the Beretta.

"I believe so," Raylan answered.

"Then no. We just didn't think it safe to leave him here in his condition."

Raylan sauntered over to stand in front of Tim and the two officers backed up to watch.

"You okay?"

Tim looked up. "I'm drunk." He sounded upset about it.

"No shit. You planning on using that?" Raylan asked, pointing at the handgun.

"Somebody was trying to take my wallet," he replied slowly, punctuating each word by jabbing at the air with the muzzle.

Raylan flinched each time Tim jerked his hand and finally reached down and snatched the Beretta from him. He was relieved to see the safety was on. He slid it into his pocket and squatted down, face-to-face with his inebriated coworker. He poked his hat back a bit.

"What the hell, Tim? I haven't seen you like this in a while. What would your girlfriend say?"

Tim's shoulders slumped and he hung his head. "We're done," he said quietly.

Raylan felt the weight of that statement.

"Has anyone told her, yet?" he asked. "'Cause she's at your place right now, waiting for you. She didn't seem 'done' when we spoke."

Tim looked at him like he wanted to say something important but couldn't articulate it. He finally settled for something easy. "I fucked it up."

"No, you didn't, not yet anyway. You made a choice, she didn't like it. Best go home and explain to her that you'd make it again. Let her decide what next. There's nothing you can do about it after that." Raylan sighed heavily and thought he'd be wise to heed his own advice.

"Come on, buddy."

He hauled Tim to his feet, half-dragging him to his car, and flopped him in the back seat. He nodded to the officers and they smiled back in understanding. Then he drove Tim home.

Miljana was relieved and grateful and gave Raylan a kiss on the cheek after he'd deposited Tim on the couch.

He smiled and said, "Tim's helped me out of a few sticky situations in the past. I figure I owe him."

He took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair and stood there, unsure what to do. "Are you okay with him?" he asked her, pointing over at Tim who hadn't moved and seemed to be asleep again.

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged, "I can handle him. Thank you, again. I'm sorry to have…"

He cut her off with a wave, put his hat back on and left.

Miljana covered Tim with a blanket and went up to bed. She could deal with him in the morning.

Tim woke early and felt horrible. He drank three large glasses of water and ate some dry toast while he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. He tried to remember how he got home. Raylan. He'd never hear the end of that.

He was sitting at the table with his head resting in his hands, trying to build up the courage to go for a run when she slipped into the kitchen and plunked herself down beside him. He looked up startled. She drew her legs up onto the chair and hugged her knees, feeling horrible herself, determined not to start crying. She felt more than a bit responsible for his hangover.

"Well," she said, her tone light, "it should have been a longer argument, really. I shouldn't have yelled at you to get out and I thought you could have defended yourself with a little more enthusiasm and drunk with a little less. But, hey, it was our first. I guess we just need some practice."

He stared at her confused.

"Maybe we need to rehearse," she suggested, putting her feet down and turning to face him. "It could go like this. You say, _If you don't like what I do, then why are you sticking around? _Then I say,_ You don't know how hard it's been for me watching you suffer through your nightmares. _Then you say,_ Hard for you? How do you think it's been for me? _Then I say, _I don't really hate what you do, I just hate that it's dangerous. _Then you say,_ Well, I can't change that. _And I say,_ I know." _

She ran out of steam. She was tired and it wasn't a very good argument. She had nothing clever to say. She felt like the cobbler.

He reached over and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

"I kind of suck at arguing," he said.

"I didn't give you very good lines," she conceded. "And I don't do a Kentucky accent very well."

"Are we done?"

"Yes. No! Done what?"

"Done arguing," he clarified, chancing a small smile at her confusion.

"Oh, yes."

"So now what?"

She looked at him in surprise. He really didn't know.

"Now we make up," she answered.

"Are you going to do that by yourself, too, or can I help?"

She smiled and slid onto his lap, throwing her leg over and sitting so she could see him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he drew her in as close as he could. He could hear her breathing in his ear. It was soothing and he closed his eyes and stopped thinking.

* * *

**Author's Note**: more Mexican-Spanish translation: _narcos_ anyone in the drug trafficking trade in Mexico, especially cartel related.

The Beretta M9 is the Army Ranger issued sidearm. Thanks to Red Molly for suggesting it would be Tim's backup of choice.

Thanks to everyone for reading.


End file.
